


An Aria in Moonlight

by PandorasWritingDesk



Series: Remakes: Classic Stories, New Twist [1]
Category: Original Work, Phantom of the Opera (kinda)
Genre: Also I forgot, Everything else is pretty much pining, F/M, Hallelujah, I can't spell either shit, I'm so sorry, Lots of healthy and unhealthy pining, M/M, Original work - Freeform, Phantom of the Opera - Freeform, Poorly translated French, Scenes with anxiety attacks, Sucks to suck, THERES NO INCEST, also I spell better in the actual thing trust me, bsclly, but really gay, but there's a bi guy, cant stress enough, hopefully, i can't tag, im sorry im scared to rn, it doesn't work, its a dousy, lots of French and Italian phrases, lottsa triggers but I'll label them, most all gay dudes, music/art centric, no graphic descriptions of sexual relationship, not graphic but not good either, plz don't kidnap ur sempai, so strap in those firm ass butts bois, the last names are the same for most characters cause they're adopted, there is some rape, this is some slow ass burn, who aren't super original, with Original Characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-09-22 00:43:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 21
Words: 28,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9574337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PandorasWritingDesk/pseuds/PandorasWritingDesk
Summary: Opera prodigy Christopher Riccoletti is thrown into the spotlight when a new playwright comes to the Opera Ferrique with a showboating Italian premadona on his heels. Will the playwright finally free him from his prison of self-hatred and buried anxiety that bubbles to the surface when ever his director speaks, or will the new actor drag him even farther into the darkness that is his past?





	1. Overture

**Author's Note:**

> So first thing first, every character is more or less a different version of a character from Phantom of the Opera, the book and movie. The only major differences are Christine has many more issues than her love triangle and dead father, the Phantom doesn't want to murder everyone who looks at this Christine or stalk him, they work together c'mon, and Raul is basically just a crush Christine had who didn't really love him the same way the Phantom does so he's just a bamf wingman. And I added two villains. I'll let you figure out who's who so it's more fun but, it's easy to tell who Christine is just from the tags.

Christopher’s arms ached as the last echo of a violin symphony drifted away from the ceiling. His breath echoes through his bones and a sigh of relief rushes from him. He feels too many eyes upon him in the tight gripped lift to notice the beads of moisture falling down his neck or how his freckled cheeks are showing through layers of pale cream. He couldn't pinpoint the start of the dull roar, couldn't see the first palms hitting each other, but he felt the avalanche of adoration send waves over his skin with joy. 

He jerks forward at the feel of the mahogany against his bare feet. His arms are still held by Vermilion and Claus, who was panting harder than Christopher ever had. He leaned against Vern as he held back whoops of laughter until the curtain slid past his sight. He squeezed his dance partner quickly before running to meet a slim, violet clade blonde running towards him. He hugged her slim figure as she laughed in his ear, wrapping around his shoulders.

Cecily kissed his cheeks, leaving a soft fleshy mark on his overly white checks. She laughed brightly in his ear as he turned center stage, holding her by the waist. Cecily was so tiny even Christopher could lift her up, yet he loved to twirl her around when she was laughing and smiling with her golden stained lips. 

“You were incredible, Chrisy! How can you sing those notes?”  
The freckled boy shrugged, holding back his chuckles, “Lots of practice, I suppose.”

She hugged him tight as the curtain rose, the tragic lovers stepping up to the center stage with bright smiles and laughs as they bowed. Christopher spun his leading lady, as he did every night, to move away from the twirling dancers of her maidens gripping the hands of his companions. They both laughed, giddy with excitement and adrenaline from their performance. He stopped as he returned to the massive crowd of actors preparing to go up for their time in the light. He placed his small friend next to him as she laughed and gushed to Vermilion, who was sprinting back next to his fellow leads, since he was the lover's’ closest friend. 

Christopher laughed as he was hugged by his dear friend, looking past his shoulder. He could see the eyes all on the ballet corp, clapping and cheering but as he looked up at the boxes he felt eyes baring straight at him. A group jumped past him, the choristers, as he stepped back and looked directly at the box on the second story, Box 6. 

A tall figure was seated behind a large group, already standing as he applauded. Chris couldn't see his face, but he felt the man’s eyes digging directly into him. He froze as the man pulled something from his vest. His arm pulled back and something dark soared toward the stage in a perfect arch. Christopher held out his hand and hurriedly snatched the arrow from the air before it hit the stage, a fraction above the mahogany.

He lifted his hand to gaze at a bright coral peony, petals open and wide, leaves framing its brimming head. He looked back at Box 6 with a smile as wide as the gap between them. He bowed as a large awed voice congratulated him on his catch and he pointed towards the box with a gracious bow, the choristers clapping up to the man as well out of practice. 

Chris ran back and placed the flower in his blouse as Cecily took his hand in preparation for the very last bow. He turned back to the box and could see the faintest grin from above. This was the first time Christopher had seen the writer of the Opera Ferrique.


	2. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry the last bit was so short but guess what???? Character introductions! I'm so excited

Christopher Riccioletti was faced by an adversary, the unknown behind an office door. The fourteenth floor of the Opera Ferrique was only office spaces and leftover apartments, three of which belonged to himself, Vermilion, and Cecily. All three of the orphans were once the property of a man named Cornelius Riccioletti, and all three carried the name even when Ferrique bought the gallery and hotel to be ‘remodeled’, along with Claus and Ophelia, a pair of twins who had lived with Ferrique for near two years prior to them.

The gallery had become a seating area with boxed seats and the ballroom that centered the entire complex was turned into an opera house and stage, all made within two years of the purchase of Riccioletti Apartments. Chris had been with Ferrique for four years now, and had garnered a reputation he quite liked, both as an actor and a musician. Yet, he couldn’t help but be overcome with worry as he was faced by the company’s new playwright. 

Christopher shivered internally as he pictured the frightening man inside the door, how tall, fierce, and cruel he must certainly be. Writers were never very happy with Christopher’s performances after the rush of opening night and he had grown fearful of the angry taunts that had rained upon him for the pieces he was cast in as of late. He’d grown to fear most writers, despite the playwright’s marvelous script and glowing admiration. Christopher more feared how he’d be seen over how he would like the man.

He rapped on the ancient oak, back rigid and shaking slightly as a large figure pulled the door open in a sharp yank. The man before him must've been two heads taller, Christopher's nose aligning with his collar. He tilted his head upward to meet a pair of dim eyes. Eyes he had caught on many a night. 

A smile lightly perked his lips from practice as he looked back down at his thin canvas shoes next to the leather loafers of the dimly familiar figure. He cleared his throat as he met the eyes once more with his smile, brighter than a supernova, at the new writer. Christopher looked up to meet a pale face half covered by a slim porcelain mask. His hair was a stark black, slicked back into a neat part, like a white string against his scalp. 

“Good morning, Signor. I'm certain Monsieur Ferrique told you I'd be coming by,” he held out his hand with a slight color rising to his cheeks from the ease he felt before of the tower of a man. “I'm Christopher Riccioletti, one of the actors here.”

He was met with the brightest half smile he'd ever seen as his hand was wrapped in a firm calloused one. 

“I'm more than aware of you, Monsieur,” he confessed with a soft, sultry tone as he took the boy’s hand that put him slightly on edge. “It’s a wonder to be in your presence, especially with your schedule.”  
Christopher smiled, bowing slightly as he took his hand back. “No need to fret. The next performance is our 14th of the show. Excitement dies down by the 6th. May I come in? I was asked to talk with you about your first script for our company. Monsieur Ferrique wanted to ensure you have a solid idea for your debut.”

The man nodded, ushering him into a large parlor, a curtain behind a shining oak desk in line with the glass window, leading to a small balcony.

“Pardon my questioning, but, do you plan to live here as well, Signor?”

The man nodded again, sitting on a sturdy plush bench that Christopher admired for its ornate legs. The furnishings all reminded him of a manor rather than a small apartment space he once was kneeled in day and night. He wondered how often those legs would’ve been polished had he never been sought after by the Monsieur, if he had remained a wench for all of his life. Of course, some of the other unpleasantness he faced would also not currently haunt his waking thoughts. He supposed that was fate, altogether rather nasty and unkind but never completely unfair. 

The man spoke softly, Christopher slipping to a stool nearby. “I hoped to met someone from the house but, I never expected them to send their finest actor into my new home.   
Christopher's face reddened only slightly. He took note of the curtain separating the office from the balcony and presumed bed of the new writer. He didn’t want to be taken behind it anytime soon. 

“Yes, um, the Monsieur rather likes surprises. He’s very curious that way.” Christopher smiled softly, sitting more comfortably. He felt a lump in his throat under the writer’s gaze. He felt nude and bare with the uncertainty of the masked face. He couldn’t read the writer, couldn’t understand the gaze he was under, only smolder in it. “He thought you were one of my, um, more acquainted viewers. He believed I’d make you feel more comfortable than others. I’d hope you can find comfort in most of the actors here. I’m not much of a fright but, they are all enamored by you being here.”

He let out a small chuckle, making the man smile. He wanted to turn away, to collapse inward from the shift in his gaze. Yet, there was some small detail that kept ebbing at his mind. He could smell fresh flowers, almost intoxicating from their placement behind his ear on the thin piano, with scent so strong that he needn’t even turn to know their arrangement. He turned back and surprised himself when he let out a soft gasp. 

“I’ve never seen peonies in that shade.” The flowers were a living, flaming shade of red that almost radiated warmth. Christopher had gotten out of his seat simply to gaze into them, lighting his green eyes with a flame he had not seen against the cool, lacquered pine. The looming shadow of the writer only made them glow more ethereally. 

“They’re a new species. A friend in Italy sent me the seeds for them. I’ve had them since she came five years ago. They don’t last long but, they always leave enough seeds for a couple months of bouquets. These are the only fiery ones this year so far.”

“You plant others?” The actor slightly tilted his head out of habit. The flower was sparking a slew of memories though.  
“Quite often, yes. My friend specializes in flowers. Begonias, roses, lilies the shade of moonlight, unfurled trumpets, narcissus and adonis alike. But save the roses and lilies and begonias, the peonies were her favorite.”

“And mine,” he blurted, his smile faltering as the writer’s eyes met his. His eyes were so hard to read with one in shadow. The one in light still seemed covered by some sort of cloud. He still felt that nauseous wave of unease grip him tight as he stared into his searing gaze. Christopher sat up quickly, clearing his throat.

“I’m happy to hear you like them. Most people just ignore things like the flowers or the color they bring.”

“Thank you, Signor,” he whispered as he regained himself. “But, I feel there is a reason for my visit that you’ve been skirting from. I still need to see your new piece, Signor. And I don’t believe you’ve given me your name.”

The writer nodded sheepishly, stepping away from the small actor before taking up a large book in his hands. 

“I have it. It’s in the final act at the moment. I didn’t mention my name. It’s not something I like to give out to people.”

Christopher merely nodded as he took the script, the size of a large novel in his hand. “I see. Tell me when I’ve earned that privilege then.” 

The writer merely smiled as he watched the boy’s eyes drift over the text. Christopher Riccioletti was someone Gavroche had been watching cautiously for a long time. He had little reason to work for one specific opera house, given the amount of letters he had received after selling his debut to a small company in his hometown and giving the town a wide audience to exploit due to the buzz. When he heard the play had been auctioned to a slightly larger troupe in Paris, he felt a need to see it, given that the actors who used his work were more readers than actors. Good readers, but not as emotional as he felt it should be.   
Seeing Christopher perform as the lead brought him to his knees at the glory of the most perfect, exact, and living performance he would ever see. Christopher played Sir Collith with all of his being, merging into a person unlike his stature or his voice yet, as powerful and glorious as he sauntered across the stage and demanded respect before collapsing under his own mistakes. Every single impact and facet of his tragedy was amplified in his exaggerated eyes. Even in the highest box seats, women would weeped as they stared into his gleaming irises. 

Gavroche couldn’t feel anything but intense amazement by the time Christopher was raised by the other cast, catching his eyes as he broke to pant from the intense satisfaction of the finale and the finality of the ending. He had brought flowers to gift to the cast simply for taking on his work but, only one of them deserved it truly. When he threw the flower to him, he was amazed at the skill he showed by plucking it out of the air with expert motion. Christopher was everything he saw in his head as he wrote, even just reading through the script he’d just written, watching the fluidity of his hands and the steady gaze of his eyes as he continued to go through phrase and idea with his own mind. 

“Monsieur, would you mind telling me if you know what you want for the casting? Ferrique was on the fence about directing your piece, given you’re here this season.” 

Gavroche nodded. “I would rather like to direct. And I'm quite certain I will be casting for next week. If I could direct, I’d be happy to take it.”  
The boy nodded, ignoring the burning stare of the author as he read through the lines and whispered to himself. Gavroche could see his expression shift from line to line, going from person to person with complete skill and utter ease. He adored every small twitch of muscle before he looked up at him.   
“Is this an allegory? I like it so far but, it’s not as carefully hidden as your last work.” 

Gavroche shrugged, a twinkle in his eyes. “It wasn’t meant to be. I felt like none of the critics understood my first script. Even with my notes or my interviews. Is it worse?”

He shrugged. “Not really. It’s only that, this time, the theme felt too easy to find, I suppose. I was prepared for more ambiguity.”  
“Sorry to disappoint.”

The writer only chuckled as he watched the boy go back to the piece. He was still mouthing phrases but he started smiling, despite the place of the second and more depressing act. Chris looked up at him grinning.

“It’s amazing. The symbolism, the rising action, the drama between the two. It’s perfect. But, the doll isn’t gendered.”  
“Yes, I wanted to keep it open for the right actor or actress. The doll doesn’t need to be female to garner love and obsession.”

Christopher nodded smiling. “I couldn't agree more. It seems most interesting. I greatly enjoy it. Keep it up and try to be close to the final pages by next week. I don’t want to finish it, yet. It’ll be more fun when I actually audition for it if I don’t completely memorize the entire plot.”

Gavroche nodded as he reached out for the outstretched script, the boy standing as he brushed off the light bit of dust he hadn’t noticed on the chair from his pant leg. He stretched, ignoring the eyes watching his thin frame, even as his mind reeled in protest. He knew what it meant to be watched over by another man. Chistopher was familiar with the want in the writer’s eyes as he stood. He’d felt it forever ago. He never wanted to feel those stares, the hungry and longing ones, again in his life. Not even when he performed. The ease from before melted and turned sour on his tongue. He couldn’t help but shiver and step away when the writer’s hand brushed his. The writer’s eyes were full of concern, and, for a second, Christopher pitied him. But, he could feel the way the man saw him. How everyone saw him. He wished the ancient Riccioletti had taken one of his eyes or scarred him across his capturing face, he wished he looked awful. He’d do anything for just a day without those glances, those stares he had grown to detest and fear. He didn’t want to be gazed upon like he always was, not after that night.   
The boy wrang his wrists and nodded, backing away towards the door, the writer stepping away at the palpable unease. 

“I should retire for the afternoon. You still have much to write, and I have a matinee in little less than two hours. Please, take your time on the piece. I wouldn’t want to rush you.” 

Gavroche nodded, looking away as a small, “Thank you,” passed his lips. The boy had shut the door before he could let out the sigh he’d been holding back. He’d have to get back on the right foot with the actor if he was to play the part he needed. Nevertheless, Gavroche wasn’t worried about how he himself was viewed by the boy, he could go on without become close to him, more or less. But the fear in Christopher’s eyes was not rehearsed. And he would stop at nothing to ensure he never had to see such eyes pinpointed at himself again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, translators for French and Italian would be greatly appreciated, and comments and critiques are wanted, cause imma baby in this madhouse.


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hehehe.... I luv this chapter.  
> Hope u do too.
> 
>  
> 
> (Mini trigger for mentions of past trauma)

Christopher stood alone with Ferrique and the playwright seated before him, notes flung across a slim oak table and scripts with sheet music piled on top of each other. He’d sung his piece with the rest of the ensemble, the chorus line all performers were tried and ordered from. It was relatively easy for the seasoned performer, but Ferrique was one to always ensure the best from his troupe. Technically, there were three possible male leads within the play. All of them had multiple songs and important scenes with lengthy dialogue and monologues that the playwright had an expert, near shakespearean way of accentuating and incorporating into the story and both the owner and the writer knew where the performer before them should be placed. 

Christopher gave his quick introduction, already reciting lines he felt he’d given since he was born. He recited the soulouque of the Count of Coriolan, the smaller part he had in the second production the theater was premiering late in the spring next year and waited for directions.  
He wanted to close his eyes in that moment when Ferrique spoke to him. He wanted to fall through the floors and bury himself even deeper with his bare hands. Christopher would rather slit his throat then hear that voice say his name as long as he lived.

“Very impressive, Riccioletti, but, anyone could’ve told you that.” The older man held out a pristine script, a little over a quarter of a foot in height. He took it gingerly, eyes glued to the stage floor as he clutched it to his chest. Gavroche cleared his throat as he saw the actor’s eyes glaze quickly. He’d seen that face before, the loss of thought and the inward, downward spiral opening. Christopher was happy for the opening to turn away as the writer gave him his part.

“Well, we’d like see what you can do with this script specifically. Please turn to the monologue on page 113, line 15, from the Doll.”

The boy nodded, flipping hurriedly as he felt the presumed glare weaken to a single pair of irises. Gavroche wasn’t looking at him like he was the week before. He’d tried intensely hard to keep away from the man, knowing he was still being sized up by him. He supposed he’d made his point by then luckily. He still had to repress his shudder as he stopped flipping to the line and felt the eyes grow hungry. 

“You don’t see me as alive, do you, Domn? Ah, well, I can't blame you much for that predilection. How often have you opened my chest and oiled my strained gears or refueled me as I stood lifeless before you. But, you refuse to admit what you have done to me. You have created life. I can feel every breath I take and every object that collides with my being. Every night, I dream with absolute clarity and yet, I lose them by the time my body is revived for your own wants. I dream of warm fire light and sweet song as I’m watched by eyes from the window. I feel every single gasp that is released when a child sees me smile. I know what it’s like to be overjoyed by the sight of adoration. I understand when people are in pain and when they are astounded. I am alive, but you can’t admit that you’ve made me.”

Christopher breathed in, shaking his head as he smiled slightly. “You doubt what you can’t comprehend. That this being crafted by your hands of porcelain and gasoline could ever understand flesh and blood. You taught me speech, you feed and taught me. Yet, I was never a human to you, was I? Never a real creature, but a piece of craftsmanship, a simple ornament. How naive am I, completely daft and thoughtless, to have stayed here for near decades and accept that I shall never be warmed by the glorious sun. That I shall spend more days inside a cabinet under lock and key, forced to dance and sing to bring in the children you despise in every sense but the financial. Why do I even stay besides you control my every being? Is there no point to life if you watch over me? No, there is reason to you, a sick creature who confines me for himself alone. But, I can’t stay away from you. For I would surely die without someone taking care of me.”  
“How fragile must I be. How vulnerable and afraid. I only want to be loved. I want to be held tight at night. I’m compressed within this screen. I can’t be freed within this box. I won’t be able to breathe in this shop. But you won’t let me go.” Christopher was nearly screaming by this point, collapsing inward. He could feel the eyes searing into him even deeper, as if they were prepared to do as the doll wished in the most twisted way possible. He gulped in a breath as he leaned back. “I will not know the glories of life all man was given for I am wrong. I am ill made. I am man made. I should be ostracized yet I am shown and flaunted as a new toy not to be touched or seen. I am not real because you refuse to see me as real. And until you do,” Christopher raised a hand, clutching an invisible weapon as he pulled at his chest, “let me be dead.” 

The boy folded in on himself with a scream that shook the actors backstage to the point that Vern pulled back the curtain to see him fall to the floor. Vern saw that his friend was pushing himself up and shaking off the dust, with a thin smile directed straight to him for reassurance, before turning back and bowing. Vern lead the rest of the troupe and the men sitting before him into a loud applause that reddened the actor’s cheeks. Chris chuckled softly as he walked off stage, clutching the script to his chest, knowing the actress to follow would feel heavily challenged to follow him up. 

A sharp pain of regret filled him at that thought though. He didn’t want to upstage his friends, his own siblings in art. He wasn’t better than Vern or Cecily. He wasn’t even better than his understudy, Cornelius. Even he could actually talk to people besides those he’s known for most of his life. He wasn’t worth that applause, it wasn’t even good. Not to mention Cecily was much better at that exact same monologue, practically falling offstage by the end. 

She hugged him as they sat on the side of the stage. Cecily and Vern were the only one to ever touch him like this since they’d met. He’d seen the playwright looking at him as Cecily leaned on his shoulder. He wanted to attack him with a blunt object between the eyes, to pounce at him for that hungry glare. If that was even slightly predatory towards the practically crystal and unflawed woman he saw as a sister, he would assure that the new writer would not see the next sunrise. But, if it was aimed towards him, -well- Christopher didn’t know how to go forward.  
He turned away from the searing eyes, seeing Vern bowing to start his audition. He started into the monologue of Tenold, another piece from the secondary production that he hadn’t earned but he had grown fond of watching Claus acting it out nightly. Christopher was smiling as he watched his stronghold perform with the clarity and reverence he wished all performers could make. Vermillion grinned as some clapping came from behind him. He bowed as a voice that froze the boy filled the actor’s mind again. The voice was softer than it usually was but it felt like it was right in his ears, whispering and caressing him, as the voice told Vern to turn to the doll’s monologue. 

He tried to turn his focus on the comforting voice as Vern thanked him. He tried to get back into the present and listen to the only person he cared about do better than him, to earn the place he truly deserved on that stage. Because he worked harder than anyone and he was the only person who deserved to play the glorious part written for someone like that. 

Christopher shook as he watched Vern fall to his knees. He had yet to utter the climatic final line as the invisible blade pushed deeper through his skin. He turned to look into Christopher’s eyes, as if looking far away before his voice, strong and sure, weak and frail as he fell down. 

“Then let me be dead.” His arm fell out from under him and he fell to the stage with deafening applause. Chistopher was whooping from his corner of the stage, Cecily whistling into his ear. No one ever saw the glory that is Vermillion in a role he actually loves. And even with the briefest of descriptions, Gavroche had seen a glimpse of his vision on the wrong face. Vermillion hit every beat and facial expression. He didn’t rush like Christopher had, he didn’t shiver or gulp or gasp. Vermillion had already prepared himself for the act the doll would commit, he had already decided to kill himself and was prepared to impale himself, he was sure of himself. And the doll was meant to be prepared, he had accepted this fate. But Christopher had not. 

But, now, he didn’t know how to pick him over the jewel that was Christopher. So, Gavroche did something he hadn’t before. He planted the seed he had promised to save for his muse alone. 

“That was incredible, Vermilion. I would very much like to see you again. Keep the script please and have the doll’s line memorized by the final audition this Sunday.”

Christopher was beaming as Vermilion nodded, gracious thanks flowing from his mouth. Warmth had enveloped his chest as he enveloped the older boy in a hug. He hadn’t touched Vern in ages and he’d forgotten the feel of another person’s chest against himself from all that time alone. Vern was near tears from the rush of joy from possibly landing the main part. And Christopher couldn’t be more happy.

But Gavroche felt that all the joy he had stream out from him. Christopher had lost all of his ethereal beauty for his glorious light had dimmed to nervous faltering. Another actor had taken his shattered idol and risen his performance to another level using the remains. Christopher may have been a saint as he stumbled through the scene but Vermilion was an archangel. Gavroche’s heart ached as he felt every inflection and breath with the intensity of a personal sun. Vermilion was amazing in his performance of his play but now he was taking the part from the angel who once stole the entire theater. How could so much change within the two years it took to get to the small troupe? How had his own muse grown frail and sorrow filled? 

He watched with sorrow in his chest as Christopher was pecked on the cheek by the boy he had always seen in the background, who had no reason to catch his rage or his fear. Gavroche didn’t want Christopher to treat anyone with the tenderness that he showed the angel who had stolen his own part. How could the angel that had brought Gavroche to his knees in prayer fall to the feet of such a simple, unremarkable man? 

Vermilion wasn’t much to look at, a slim blond man with a slightly crooked nose and bright, near rust colored eyes that almost matched his name sake. He skin was blemished cream and his hair was only a shade lighter, close to sun bleached bone. But, Christopher. Sweet, unperturbed Christopher. His skin was a peach painted porcelain, freckles covering him like the most weighted of constellation laden skies. His eyes were a piercing green that seemingly changed with the season, now near watery teal. His hair was an auburn that put fire to shame with its radiance and he had been careful to keep it short, perfectly cropped at the ear, leaving a reddish field of razor cut hairs beneath the soft flowing strands brushing his earlobes. Gavroche could hardly stare at him for longer than a few minutes before he felt weak from the very light of him.  
Christopher was his only goal for nearly two years. He hadn’t thought of anything but how glorious Christopher was within the place of a heavenly, unperturbed doll for years on end. He had heard the actor telling him soft nothings in his dreams, felt longing with his heart at the very sight of him from the highest box in the entire opera. He had fantasized each and every beautiful inflection of his voice but, his heart felt ledden from the sight of his only muse for ages and ages on end fall from grace. But he only fell back and listened to the next actor talk softly as he followed up the best performance of the night. 

Christopher nuzzled the warm chest he was clutched too. Vermilion was near tears from the joy and Christopher couldn’t help but feel the same. For once he wouldn’t be under Ferrique’s heavy gaze as he skirted from scene to scene. Perhaps he could even be ignored completely, a simple actor with a simple character with his best friend beside him. Christopher had felt no stronger happiness in the world. Christopher focused only on the boy in his arms as the final actor bowed and the auditions silenced with the squeak of chairs and that disgusting voice letting out a finally thank you to the actors who had never made audience to his horrors or his gaze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please point out any issues, I feel like there's always more to improve on.


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY I FORGOT IM A MESS. 3 chapter update cause I love you. Also slight trigger for mentions of past trauma.

Christopher felt his heart leap from his chest when he was given Doll’s Understudy and Domn Ronald. Vermilion was in tears as he was given his part of the Doll. The two were holding back laughter and whoops as the playwright continued to yell name and role, with mixed reactions coming from the troupe. The majority was positive, save Cornelius being put in as a man with only four lines and no ballet pieces, his finest form. He was allowed to work with the ballerinas, but he still didn’t have much prominence and grumbled much to himself upon the unfairness. Ferrique simply watched from afar, giving quite feedback that Christopher couldn’t hear due to Cecily’s clapping and yelling as she was placed as Lady Ronald and the lead ballerina.

However, the celebrations were interrupted by a telegram and a loud booming from the gallery. Actresses and actors bolted offstage, pushing past Monsieur Ferrique and his assistant, the ballerina choreographer Lady Cruella, to see who had been so bold as to enter a closed playhouse in the early day. A great wave of screeching sounded in the marble halls, nearly knocking the curious playwright to the floor. Actors and actress catched their dear friends as a mass of actors swooned from the sight of the visitors.

Andare Avidità was in a pure silk suit, a dark red burgundy coat brushing his thighs as he strided into the gallery hall. He examined the local artwork with an analytical eye and Christopher couldn’t help but admire how sure and pristine the stranger appeared. He was too busy staring at the new guest to notice Vermilion’s dropped jaw. Seemingly everyone but Christopher had recognized the tall, well postered gentleman as none other than the long running Madonna of the Florence opera. Gavroche was frozen by the aura pouring off him in fragrant waves of orange that had the opera in complete silence, rapt attention pointed at his gloriously exaggerated figure. 

Christopher’s admiration dwindled as he caught the pompous hum of appreciation Andare let out as he stepped towards the gathered artesians. He saw his gaze sweep over them, as if he was cataloguing livestock for attributes he liked, disliked, and could use for his advantage. Andare seemed to be eyeing up Ophelia, a kind sister to Claus with the eye of many men but, not of the highest acting caliber. She was given high, ary solos that she could always pull off with a flourish but she never had much character unstage. Andare seemed to notice this the moment she turned to a panting wreck under his eyes, even the boy he’d been eyeing could at least keep a blank face. 

Gavroche was not even stunted by the bright blue gaze that met his masked face. The eyes grew larger with the familiar curl of a repressed snarl on his face. He’d seen that buried disapproval and disgust far too many times to mistake it for anything else. Andare regained it with a smile as the wiry man who had been cut off by his entrance walked forward to meet him with a wide grin. 

Monsieur Ferrique was an elderly man in looks but youthful in voice and spirit. Ferrique was of high stature in his dress and his height, nearly brushing the lowest crystal of the gallery chandelier on his toes. His warm brown eyes captivated most of the actors and brought them comfort in their moments of stress. He adored all of his actors and was known to be supportive through the bulk of any slow career. Andare didn’t really find him threatening or comforting, just a mediocre man with a high pedestal. He wondered what carnality the man fell into when he stepped off his perch, how deprived his mind could become, lest his feet weren’t placed on holy, raised ground. 

“Bonjour, Monsieur Avidita, what a fine surprise you have brought to our humble home! Pray tell, do you need anything from your travels?”

The red cloaked man turned to face the brown eyed man, a small smile slipping as he noticed a face just above the shoulder of his blue suit. The face was drained of blood, from fright or charm Andare couldn’t tell, and its eyes were the shame of the purest polished hazel gems. He had never seen such a tastefully dense cloud of freckles upon tanned skin, nor hair that could grow a shade of red as rich as burgundy velvet. A soft fragrance of rose would suit him well in the early morning hours. But, Andare only smelt the overwhelming sandalwood of the director before him. Only one person had truly caught the face’s attention beside himself, and that was this cheery, warm man. How odd that the freckled beauty found fear in such docile and sweet tones. Andare gave it little thought though, seeing as he had a role to catch. 

“Yes, I will need a room to stay in and a part in the Opera Ferrique’s Winter Production. I have come to Paris to find the writer of the most praised play of our generation. Not to mention, the rising star of your opera. I'm always happy to bring recognition to a prodigy of the arts.”

Andare had eyes as lifeless and cold as a stuffed wolf. They made Christopher freeze up like a dew coated rose in winter. Not a breath left him as that blue gaze shone his hunger with a clarity like a thousand frozen ponds. He could feel fire and ice collide on his face as two gazes met on his frigid form. He dared not meet the separate pair that burned his neck so he stepped toward the new addition to the troupe. He held out a hand to Andare, smiling with a shine that screamed ‘I don’t want to be near you’.  
"Thank you very much for your support. I hope that I haven’t disappointed you so early though, seeing as I won’t be leading this show.”

Andarw had to hold back a flash of anger as he saw the doe of a man tense up from the twinge of muscle. The Madonna couldn’t possibly believe his soon to be project had already been thrown to a disadvantage of being sidelined. 

He let out a sigh through his nostrils as he spoke, deliberately holding back his rage with a calculated precision as he asked the actor, “You aren’t leading? Then what, portento, is your part in Signor Fausser’s small production?”

Christopher’s frigides fell into annoyance. He lost his fear of the man before him as he crossed his arm and stared into the dead eyes before him with fiery intent.  
“I, Signor Avidita, am playing the secondary male role. I flubbed an audition, seeing as how I am human and can’t always gain a main role, I’d hope you would get the lead advisory, seeing as our director, Monsieur Fausser, decided to wait on a new actor such as yourself.”

Gavroche took his obvious cue and walked up beside the reddened boy. His cheeks were tinged with anger and his chest was heaving under his crossed arms. He couldn’t blame Christopher, he had been insulted by an idiotic man who thought he could overtake his entire career he would be raging too. So, he didn’t smile when he held out his hand, he puffed up his chest to intimidate the unwanted man. 

“I’m open for a re-audition this afternoon if you would like to set yourself up here in Paris. Unless, you need immediate results.”  
The man’s nostrils flared, even as he smiled. “Later will be fine.” He turned to the owner of the Opera and let his voice turned harsh as he asked, “Where is my new room?” and followed to silent man away from the stunned crowd. 

Vermillion was the first to break the stillness, running over to Christopher and pulling him back into the theatre, slim Cecily not at all far behind as she leaped past Gavroche.  
“How could you say that,” the blonde harshly whispered, Cecily taking Christopher’s opposite hand and leading the trio to the orchestra pit. “That man can make you bigger than the entire Seine, then Florence!”  
“Chrisy,” Cecily cried, with her bright lilting accent. “Andare Avidita is a terrible man, we all agree-”  
“He isn’-”  
“Those who’ve met him. Just know that we are all being kind to him. Some for their naivety, some for their fear. You should be in the latter. He’s already sought you out, even though he doesn’t even know your name. You just need to keep a distance and be safe. Promise us that.”  
“And at least take his offer. Just saying you could be taught and work with Avidita could get you where farther than here. Even to get you to Italy or England. He can get you places you really can’t with Ferrique.”  
“But at what cost,” Christopher wondered aloud, making his two friends loosen their grips. Only Vermillion knew what had happened between him and Ferrique. He didn’t want to think of that again, not like he had with Gavroche. How he was terrified of seeing a man that could literally choke him in rage who matched that power. Vermillion was the only man he felt he could trust anymore.  
“If he tries anything, I’ll ruin him. You won’t be put down, you’ll get away from this. Away so you can be the artist you really are.”  
Christopher cracked a small smile, as Vermillion ruffled his hair, Cecily hugging his waist. “I’ll try, I promise.”

Sated, Cecily pressed her lips against his scalp and let Vermillion and him walk out of her arms, towards their separate rooms. Still, her heart was heavy from the fear for her brother.


	5. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SO BIG TRIGGER WARNING FOR UNWANTED FLURTING/HARASSMENT AND PTSD/ANXIETY ATTACK IN THIS CHAPTER.

Christopher slumped against the edge of his bed, letting out a deep sob as he collapsed inward. Vermillion was still buried under the crushing group of actors and actresses making him front and center. But, he had been singled out when no one was watching.

Christopher was stretching, limbs sore from the intensive blocking and repeated, shouted choreography for the lavish musical pieces he was already infatuated with. He couldn’t believe how expert the new playwright could create music with such glory and precision. It was nearly the most moving score he’d ever heard.

But, he had been perfectly fine for the past two weeks. He was flourishing into the role of the nervous man who falls in love with the doll he rescued from the villain, Andare, who was quite well casted according to many actors, and felt secure away from the Monsieur’s gaze as he was less in the spotlight and more offstage and speaking to Vermillion. After each rehearsal, he and Vermillion went over the doll’s line and practiced the choreography since they usually didn’t have time to include his stumbling practice as Gavroche and Madam Cruella insured Vermillion knew every simple twitch of his performance. 

So, when he was pinned against the wall by the blue eyed man, he felt drowned in fear and helplessness. Andare was cloaked in a spotless blouse with tights and cotton stockings so he could easily dance and move with ease. Somehow, even in his bright regalia, he still froze Christopher to the floor in fear. 

“Why must you hide away, mio rosso? Does the stage not excite you? Dio, has il mio moroso grown depressed from his loss of place?”

Christopher had to bite his cheek to keep from whimpering as the man stroked his cheek. He couldn't move or even see anyone besides the slimy, smiling man he had to swallow to feel anything besides the disgust coiling in his stomach.

“Please,” Christopher’s voice was faint and vibrating as Andare snarled, gripping his wrists tighter. Christopher went rigid as he was held. “Monsieur Avidita, I’m not feeling very well. Would you please let m-”

He was cut off as Andare was pulled off by a large figure. Christopher couldn’t help but bolt before either of them could see that he was running. He could still feel that grip on his wrists and chest. He could feel the mouth on his neck, the breath on his cheek, the teeth biting into him so hard that he bled. Phantom touches nearly brought screams from his throat as he could almost feel the hand holding him down as he was overtaken by the man it belonged too. He froze up as a knock rang out in his empty room. He turned, staring at it and hoping that the person would just leave. He was a wreck regardless of who was behind his door and he didn’t want anyone to see him until he was rested and far away from that moment with Andare.

“It’s Monsieur Fausser, Christopher. I wanted to make sure you’re alright. There’s some coffee outside if you wish. I’ll pick it up after a while. I hope you’re alright.”

Christopher sniffled as he heard footsteps leave his front. The playwright had seen him when he was attacked. He wanted him to be okay. He must’ve thrown Andare off of him. He’d seen him and kept him safe. He hadn’t been treated so kindly since Vermillion had been made to work harder than any of them. Christopher may have been susceptible to even worse if he was overworked as his friend had become. 

He stood on shaky legs, wrapping a small blanket over his shoulder from the early autumn chill of August. He was still having trouble breathing, his throat clenching and his nose still running. He walked slowly, his head hung low in tiredness and the stream of tears growing sluggish. He opened the door slowly, checking and ensuring no one was out in the hall and sighing in relief at the pleasant solitude. A smile grew on his stained face as he saw the tray left at his door. A pot of coffee, and two smaller cups with cream and sugar with a small plate of croissants and small pastries Cecily would sometimes bring him in the morning or when he was sick. He brought it in with a soft hum on his lips and set it down on the small counter he ate his meals on and watched the snowfall in the sweet winter mornings. 

He poured himself a small cup, eating the flaky bread as he tried to distance himself as far as possible from the pain he’d been forced into. He had to thank the writer for spending money on him, especially since he was probably overreacting. It’s not like he was attacked really. He was just overreacting. He’s not even worth getting worked up over. He should make sure he repaid the man, given that he didn’t have to try and make him feel better, much less buy him things. He had forgotten that he still hadn't learned his first name. It was strange, how little he knew of the kind man.  
He watched as actors left for the day, streaming out in groups all laughing and waving, bundled up in scarves and fur lined coats. Vermillion would come up soon to practice and he’d have to explain the food. 

He let out a sigh as he drank the lightly sugared and creamed drink, the blanket wrapped tight around him. He didn’t want to think about Vermillion worrying over him or attacking Andare for no reason. There’s no real reason for Andare to not come after him and he wasn’t hurting him, he just overreacted. He gripped his cup tightly without think, his head spinning as he felt the grip of his anxiety rip apart the control he had over himself. His cup shook as he grabbed at his sides, panting intensely. His entire chest cavity felt like it was squeezing itself. He could feel the lips across his body, the hands pushing him against the walls and mattress, so hard he was bruised and scratched. He was close to screaming when his door was thrown open, someone running in and hugging him with such power that a splash of coffee flew to the floor. 

He was gulping air as the cup was taken from his trembling hands. HE was shaking as he was wrapped in warm hands and soft reassurances were whispered in his ear. Cecily was stroking his hair with tenderness as Vermillion wrapped a blanket around him tight. 

“Shh, Chrisy, shh. It’s alright. You’re okay. Keep calm, no one can hurt you now. You’re okay. You’re okay.”  
Vermillion took his hand, meeting Christopher’s watery eyes. “I’m so sorry I didn’t see you. We’re here now. We’ll take care of you. It’s okay.”

The boy shook in the older one’s arms, tears streaming and breath heaving as Cecily sang softly. She was singing the song they had learned to keep themselves entertained during the nights they all laid next to each other.

‘La neige d'hiver et les cloches de voiture,  
Briller et briller avec la brûlure du vent.  
Les joues cramoisies et le foyer mourant  
Faire les routes désireuses pour la nuit froide et solitaire.  
Tenez-vous serré et priez pour la chaleur,  
Comme le doux chant de l'hiver vous tient serrés.’

Christopher’s voice was weak as it sang with her sweet voice, forcing a sigh from his trembling lips so his lungs wouldn’t give out on him. She’d stopped singing so he could hear himself, steady his voice, ground himself away from the touches and the marks and the tears.

‘La nuit se presse dans ta poitrine,  
Et dans ses griffes vous attire à vider le sommeil,  
Loin de la maison et tendre reste.  
Les créatures errant avec la colère raide,  
Les braises meurent comme le soleil coule bas,  
Avec la faim tranquille ils vous tiennent vers le bas,  
Alors qu'ils se prélassent dans l'ombre d'Apollon  
Comme il est traîné à la terre non aimer.

Mes enfants chéris mes paroles,  
Chercher les heures de la nuit plus jamais,  
Et si la nuit vous emmène dans ses bras,  
Tenez-vous serré et priez pour la chaleur  
Comme le chant doux de l'hiver tient votre coeur.’

Vermillion petted his hair as he smiled weakly. They never knew who wrote the song, but the familiar folk tune made two people stop dead in their tracks at the cracked door. Ophelia wasn’t a truly vain woman, but she had forgotten the tune out of it’s lack of importance to her and Claus. She watched as he sang, his head in Vermillion’s lap. She’d pined for him since she was first introduced to the lanky boy, but she felt odd at her envy of Christopher. She pushed the thought away though, staring up at him as he smiled and dreaming of that face being for her instead, content with only her daydream.

Gavroche, who was listening from the the thin wall of his study, was overcome by an emotion stronger than envy from Vermillion’s ability to coax such a gorgeous voice from the weak and strained boy. He had never heard such sincerity when Christopher performed. The character’s he usually played were inspiring and sure of themselves but he hadn’t even sung his main song or performed his monologue during practice and he’d longed to pull this version of Christopher from the day he’d cast the boy as anything besides his leading muse. These soft vulnerability was all he’d wished to see of Christopher and it broke his heart to think it was something he would, realistically, never earn. 

He mourned his loss as he heard the slow, soothing voice with its minute fractures and swelled honesty. A sea was carried in that whispered voice and Gavroche was brought to silent tears from it, Ophelia simply letting out a sigh at the sweetness before leaving to her room, worrying that her brother would be up in arms due to her tardiness when she really needed to perfect her solo for the ballet portion. 

Christopher fell asleep in Vermillion’s arms as Cecily sang softly to him. It was a tune without words, drifting through the small apartment loud and clear as she was onstage and Gavroche felt hollow as he couldn’t see the beauty in her voice after the majesty he’d heard through the walls. So he got up, his body screaming with aches and cracks from his position pressed against the thin wall, and fell to slumber at his writing desk, trying to condense the glorious moment into a scene for the next production leering down upon him, an angel locked away in sorrow while unbeknownst become a sole muse for a broken artist looking for a sign of life in their own depression.


	6. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for a calm down chapter.

Gavroche halted as a yell sounded down the hall. He turned to see Vermillion chasing an older actor down the hall yelling at him in some foreign language as Christopher sauntered after, chuckling. The small smile sent a jolt of warmth through Gavroche. He hadn’t seen the face of simple joy on the constantly frazzled and tired actor. The cold had seeped through the glass and wooden floors, making his face flushed and his neck a near crimson color as he strode towards the staring writer. For once the flush wasn’t out of embarrassment and fear, merely from the chill.

Christopher tried to widen his smile as he came up to the writer, brushing back his stray bangs as they bounced in front of him. Gavroche looked near overwhelmed when he stopped in front of him and held out a simple cardstock letter. 

“It’s a quick thank you. For yesterday. I haven’t gotten a gift like that since… awhile. I hope you get something out of this.”

Gavroche nodded, taking it in his hand. He uttered a soft thank you that Christopher near blocked with the power of his smile. The writer hugged it to his chest as he told him softly, ‘I’m glad you’re feeling better.’ 

Chistopher hummed at that, slipping a small pouch in his hand as well, making Gavroche tilt his head. 

“I noticed that my flower left these. Maybe they’ll be as bright as your first gift. They last much longer than normal peonies too, actually. Maybe you will too.”

Gavroche was confused for a moment but Christopher was called away from the far off voice of another, Vermillion most likely, called him back to the stage. For a moment he felt a flash of frustration, but he couldn’t help but have it fall away as he read his last name in looping script. He opened it cautiously, fingers slow and steady as he pulled out the nearly black covered note. He read with deliberate leisure and smiled steadily wider as the words enveloped him in the sweet, silky smooth voice that he had played in his head and absorbed with each word he spoke during rehearsal and every song he practiced under his breath.

‘Dear Monsieur Fausser,  
I would like to sincerely thank you for the time you took to help me in a time of need. I know how far off I seem, but I’m not against you. Come to me if you need anything. I feel as if I’ve been ignoring you, I’m sorry for seeming that way. I hope I can learn your name by the premier, I’d like to congratulate you in someway, even if it is just coffee and a talk. Keep writing for us, I don’t want to lose another one for no reason. And I doubt we’ll find an alternative as kind as you.   
Sincerely,   
Christopher   
Richolletti  
P.S. I look forward to play a lead come March. Hope that I don’t flub my   
lines again’

Gavroche let out a soft chuckle, rubbing his fingers against the sharp indents. His handwriting was in fact not script but just densely connected lettering that seemed to sweep from one letter to the next, the pen pressed with the strength of a thousand men his size. He could feel every sharp turn and unconfident scribble. He looked back to see him on stage, standing parallel to himself in the entrance to the audience seats. Chris flashed him a grin as he started into the Doll’s monologue, following Vermillion’s instructions with ease as they mirrored each other in complete synchronization. Gavroche thought he had never seen an image as glorious as that of a calm and composed muse.


	7. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More character development and the gang's all acting! Yay!

Christopher ran onstage with his shawl pulled tight around his shoulders, he was shivering as he walked toward the towering facade of a small strip of stores and brightly colored shops. Wool and feathers rained down like a flurry of snow from above and quick hands behind him, tossing cotton at each other in early fall. He looked through the warm light that was a simple candle on the bottom that illuminated Vermillion’s frame, decked in a white and peach suit that made him look practically angelic. Christopher couldn’t help but grin and watch as the girls and shorter males rang up in excitement. A voice halted them in their tracks.

“Andare! You should be on set!”

Silence followed as Chris let out a sigh of annoyance, turning towards Madame Cruella as she stomped onstage only to slip behind the curtain and start yelling in Romanian. Vermillion let out a groan loud enough to compensate for everyone onstage as the brushed off the ‘snow’ of themselves and the stage. A yell sounded from behind the burgundy curtains and a wild eyed Andare was thrown from the curtains, shouting obscenities in Italian with each hit he took against his wide, pumped chest. 

His costume was not nearly an accurate piece of apparel for a shop owner with roughly five hundred dollars to his name, but Andare refused to wear any less in the, quote, ‘savage cold.’ Christopher thought it silly that he felt wearing something as ridiculous as the six piece cream and rouge embroidered suit would keep him warm when he need only keep his fur coat on indoors, something a superstitious gentleman would simply never do. 

Andare huffed as he was called once more by the director. His mind wondered for a flash if the mask on his nose had more meaning than just hiding him. He hadn’t talked to the writer since he handed him the letter nearly a month ago. He hadn’t really thought much about the piece of porcelain on his face. 

It seemed a minor point of his character, given that it never came off of his stone set face and always seemed present. Even when he tried to think of a real reason why he would constantly wear such a cumbersome piece resting on his nose. He had never taken off the piece, not even when the door was closed, given that no one had seen him putting it on or caught him with it nearly on.

Andare’s seething pulled him from his thoughts. He really shouldn’t let his mind drift given that they were in the middle of a full blocking. Of course, their main antagonist was distracted by some petty indifference. Andare nearly bellowed as he was thrown to the center of the stage by his ear by the Lady Cruella. 

“I was busy trying to get into this ridiculous costume your design made. Does she not understand how impossible it will be to even slightly relax in this mess?!”

Near immediately, a brunette with slim reading glasses and a sharp maroon dress came upstage from her place on the left entrance, her clipboard held against her chest, already clipping through the multiple pages to find the sheet as she pointed to it. “Actually, Signore, that suit isn’t meant for you or this show. You should be in the brown and cream piece with bronze. This suit is for the secondary show you refused to be in given that it’s nearly over with. If you would kindly get out of that and into the proper suit, we can start our block.” She smirked at his flaming face. The designer, Lady Coren, had a knack for getting under people’s skin for being much too observant of what could slither underneath it. Andare wasn’t hard for anyone to read, but it didn’t help that he liked to scream his emotions at anyone with enough ears to hear. 

The entire trope shared a smile with Coren, save those who were a bright pink compared to their “beloved”’s red. Gavroche was quick to break it up though.

“Please, please. Signore, we all know what stress theatre can bring. So, how about you take a break and change, while we start blocking from Act II?” 

The Madonna only answered with a scowling nod before storming offstage. The troupe near immediately grouped together and started discussing in rising whispers before Madam Cruella rapped her pointer on the floor. As silence stilled the room, Gavroche stood before them and spoke with ease, instructing them to get into place’s for the Ronald’s home within the end of their five minute break to prep for the scene. Actors, stagehands, and ballerinas fled backstage to dress themselves and grab their props, more minimal and common, seeing as most were nameless homeworkers with little to no development, given Mrs. Ronald’s hard exterior and rigid schedule. Chistopher, shrugged off his coat as Vermillion bolted, smiling. He rather liked the doll’s bright red and green suit, it accented nearly every part of his albino like figure, from his narrowed waist to his hefty chest, even brightening the faint blond of his near alabaster hair. Gavroche watched as Christopher stood over to Cecily.

She was still offstage but closer to the entrance with her blond hair in a towering bun and her face covered in bright, near pastel makeup. Her character was more or less unbearable, and she played it divinely, but she acted nothing like Lady Ronald offstage. Some actors would joke that the Lady was really all of the pent up nastiness Cecily had buried to protect her image as the “Golden Girl of Stage Ferrique”. She was quick to snap those assumptions down by reminding them how often she’d lashed out offstage with just as much ferocity. 

They were laughing with each other as Cecily began to sing with the bravado of an overworked mule. It was near ringing in the domed house as she tried to replicate Cornelius without his ‘morning tea’. Gavroche chuckled as the indignant singer, only in his leggings, ran out from the opposite side of the stage to Cecily, who fell over laughing. She continued to laugh as he broke into a high pitched aria that was clearly a reenactment of Cecily during her audition, not even two months ago.

Christopher gripped his sides as Claus started flitting his arms and bouncing up and down as he were riding on a cart upright. Cecily just laughed with them, near tears as the call to get to cues came from the smiling director. Christopher wondered how often the distant man would stare upon his group. Did he have a favorite he’d liked to watch? It seemed as if he was always tracing their group as they were onstage. He wasn’t sure what he felt about the look that Gavroche gave him as their eyes met each other. 

He strolled back to his entrance, Cecily plopping into the wide feather chair that nearly touched the top of the fireplace on wheels on center stage. Vermillon bounded on stage in a bright pink shirt blouse that had ruffles down the front, his pants and wrapped belt a sky blue. He was beaming, make-up refreshed with stark beige bands outline his neck and slightly revealed chest and up his cheekbones. It was honestly much too subtle once the lights came up, but Christopher felt like it would be more accented when they actually found a complexion that matched Vermillion’s and avoided it at all costs. 

The lines currently were a lot more like shadow to his own complexion as he ran up besides Christopher, shrugging off his dark coat leaving him in a mulberry and coffee overcoat as a violinist in the orchestra pit played a soft chord, signalling the transition between the two acts. Christopher’s flow into the slightly confused and worried Domn Ronald with a simple flick of his smile. 

“Do you drink, or eat, anything?” His voice was wavering and it caught Cecily off guard without a single shred of expression changing on her ‘throne of sorts’ besides a quirk of eyebrow to show she had heard him come in, and that guests were quite uncommon. Vermillion’s eyes flitted across the stage, brushing over the rafters and dim candle lit corners. He turned quickly back to see him as Christopher spoke. “I’ll assume you don’t eat much, huh? Well, please, don’t just keep standing in the hall, come in, come in. There’s wine to warm you if needed.”

Vermillion steeped over an invisible line as Christopher pulled him in, smiling and rubbing a hand over his neck before placing the Doll center stage and patting his shoulders with a mumbled ‘wish me luck’ as he walk to the now upright and scowling Dama Ronald. 

“Who is that miscreant? I don’t much trust you with guests, Ioan. He looks right ditzy.”

Vermillion was making a show of following the lines of the supposed flying buttresses of the Ronald’s roof, before whispering loudly and clear. “It’s so much warmer than the box.”

Domn Ronald cringed before he spoke, slow and delicate, as if his voice could shatter the wood below him. 

“Ellna, darling, he may seem daft but he has barely more age than a child. You see, that boy isn’t human. He’s a marvel of science, Ellna! He should be in a museum to talk to children about mechanics, he’s a right genius. He was being kept in this doll shop, just rusting away turning a music box with one hand and handing out simple treats to earn more revenue for some cheapskate. Can you believe that? The man practically creates life and he makes it sing for him.”

Cecily’s face was firm as ice, save the tilt of her head, away from her ‘absurd and childish’ husband. Domn Ronald bit his lip out of anxiety. 

“He can stay in our room then. I see you don’t need a living body to warm your bed, clearly.” Dama Ronald stood with no less than a patting of her lavish purple and fawn skirts to show her goodbye as she walked offstage with stiff posture and a scowl that causes the Doll to step away, leaving Domn Ronald to sigh and accept the fate his wife has chosen. 

He turned to the Doll, clutching his chest at the fear from a simple glare and let out a soft laugh that makes him jolt.

“It’s alright, Doll,” his voice was sweet and quiet. Gavroche thought for a moment that Christopher sounded better when he comforted people than when he needed comfort. He sounded happy and relieved, but that light twinge of sadness was almost completely hidden away. “She won’t hurt you, Doll. The worst thing she’s ever done is refused to see her mother when she was dying; she kept saying the woman wanted her dead. She’s not much for affection, but she’ll treat you better than me after awhile.”

The doll’s fear melted away into sympathy for a second, his eyes so visibly pained they near seemed bursting. The Doll spoke with a slightly croaked voice that had Christopher burying a reaction of legitimate surprise, given how sure and confident Vermillion had sounded just this morning.

“Posesor, I’m very sorry you feel so sad.”

Domn Ronald only looked confused as the Doll wrapped himself around his frame and then, just as Ioan shakily gripped the bright pink silk covering porcelain skin and the Doll’s metal and wood spine, a bright yell of rage broke the scene and Andare stormed on holding up the suit he was supposed to wearing for the opening with a face the shade of Vermillion’s blouse.

“Caro Dio, come posso indossare come spazzatura assoluta? Sul palco non meno!” 

The groan that followed only put Cecily at closer proximity to the enraged artist’s throat. She turned sharply after grabbing the man by his collar, nearly half a head taller in her heeled boots. 

“Signor Fausser? Would I be put outside if I gave our most admired, plus Insolent, pompeux, indigné Signor Avidita, Une ferme serrer contre son pouls?”

Gavroche and Lady Corella responded with opposing responses in tandem and Cecily happily took Corolla's as she tried to strangle the beastly man through the course cotton shirt he wore.


	8. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gavroche gets to bond with the gang. Plus a bit of a calm before the oncoming storm.

Gavroche leaned on the table as Christopher let out a howling laugh across from him. He hadn’t been this close to the actor before, especially not when he was happy. Vermillion was currently describing, in graphic detail, the scene outside his window. 

“The guy was drooling over her shoulder, it was horrifying. And the woman was close to moaning right in my ear given how loud she was. It made me want to puke on them.”   
“Was she really moaning or screaming?” Cecily was grinning, seated next to the writer and she would glare at any looks that were turned towards the masked man, luckily keeping questions at bay.  
Vermillion was nodding, chuckling as Christopher was gripping his chair. “I swear to god, she sounded like Carlotta and Damien combined at four in the morning.”  
Christopher, covered his smirk as Cecily held back a howl. “Wait. Vern, are you sayinging you’ve shared a room with Carlotta and Damien at four in the morning? Cause I doubt there are many other ways to know something like that with complete certainty.”

Vermillion only smiled back, a wicked glint in his eye that sent all four of them into laughing shrieking messes. As Cecily let out a loud, “You old dog!”

Gavroche was actually proud he was able to bring the three to an outing and liked the atmosphere of the trio. They’d ordered food much longer than he expect but, it was still fun to even see the boy across from him smiling. He followed Christopher’s eyes as a troupe of waiters ran to the table with eight or ten people while the trio began to calm down. 

Chris watched Gavroche’s clinical eye follow after the waiters, looking for their food or at least something to tide them over. Cecily broke his concentrating as she spoke loud and with bravado.

“Chrisy, we should take Gavroche to the old house! Remember, that place with the frozen pond?”  
Christopher nodded, grinning. “You’d love it Gavroche! It’s the most peaceful place in the entire city. It’s connected right to the Seine and it has the largest book collection I’ve ever seen. The old owners left all of their stuff their. Maybe they died without children or something, but no one wants to ever go there just because it’s barren and old, really.”

Gavroche smiled, nodding as he leaned towards the group. 

Vermillion was leaning on his hand, smirking as they talked. “You don’t speak much do you, Fausser.”

Christopher realized no one knew the writer’s first name, not even the Opera’s owner. It seemed so strange, given how all of them were nearly familiar in relation to each other. 

“I don’t honestly. It’s just not something I usually do.”  
Vermillion had smiled at that, chuckling softly. “Well then, if that food doesn’t come in before I starve to death, we’ll take you to our little house.”  
Cecily straightened herself whispering softly, “Parle du diable.”

A waiter came up to them with a tired smiled as he was met with the glare of a small blond girl as his eyes lingered too long on the masked man. He placed their dinners as in front of them before striding off to get out of the whole ordeal of waiting tables. 

Cecily dug into her food, face smeared with red sauce within moments. Christopher moved to wipe it away but only got splashed by more. Vermillion let out a bursting laugh, drawing more eyes than the mask. 

“Keep your voice down! You’re making me flushed.” Christopher whined through chuckles as he worked at his cheeks to get the tomato paste.   
“Here,” cautiously, Gavroche reached out a napkin, freezing the boy. “You’re on the wrong side.”

Christopher slowly leaned towards the writer and silence filled the table as the other two seemed to be completely focused on the image before them. Christopher was still frozen as he leaned toward the soft cloth. Gavroche was quick but it seemed to drag on with a comfortable silence, even with the heavy stares upon him. 

When he pulled away, Christopher let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He turned and smiled softly, his eyes darting back to his table. His head was nearly spinning as he thought how close they had been for a flash. He grinned as he thought of the warmth he’d felt for a mere moment. Gavroche was so enthralled in that bright grin, that they both missed the beaming smile Vermillion and Cecily shot each other before Chrisy broke from his trance and bit into his food.

“Thank you, very much.”  
“Welcome.”  
Cecily sighed softly. “Oh no, the mood has gotten sappy from the overwhelming sap.”

Vermillion smirked as Christopher nearly choked as he got into a fit of laughter that left Cecily started cackling from the flush that covered the writer’s cheeks.

The group laughed and talked and smiled but by the time they left it was nearly midnight. They all had practice tomorrow and they didn’t want to think about how much work they’d have to come the morning. 

“I’m sorry we couldn’t see the house.”  
“It’s alright. Tonight was nice.”  
Cecily laughed, bouncing towards the nearby Opera house. “You have no clue how much we love to hear that.”  
“Indeed.” Vermillion flanked the group, sandwiching Christopher against Gavroche and for a moment Christopher liked the contact. And, as they walk, he just let Signor Fausser’s warmth seep into his bones before he said goodnight.


	9. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So you know how Rape/Non-Con is the first thing you see when you open this? This chapter is practically the only reason why. Please proceed with caution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: there is an unwanted sexual incounter and reference to similar events in the past in this chapter as well as manipulative and abusive behavior towards another. If these things unsettle you, I would advise refraining from reading. These acts are not portrayed as romantic or enjoyable and this is on purpose.

Christopher was in his room, sipping steaming coffee in the late night when a knock had stopped him from his rereading of the script. Christopher would spend the early moonrise going over the play, section by section till he memorized at least a sliver of each line and all the different ways he could perform them or resite to them. He was going over the ending more than anything recently, given that it provided all of the glorious skill and precision Signor Fausser’s writing entailed. 

His mind liked to wonder to the masked writer. It wasn't odd he supposed, given the mysterious nature of the man and the way he tried to get close to Christopher. Still, it was strange that he would keep thinking of what he might say had Christopher told him about an issue he was facing or what he was pondering on momentarily. He still longed to see underneath the slim porcelian mask the writer never seemed to shed and to know the mysterious man’s name, but it seemed far fetched to even consider the aloof writer as an object of affection who would talk with him as Vermillion did- or Ferrique, long before.

Christopher opened his door with worn slowness and nearly shut it with a burst of energy as he saw the bright blue eyes staring into him. Monsieur Ferrique was smiling that smile. The one that made his stomach turn and his face burn. Next to him was Ophelia, seemingly dazed, given her blown pupils and flushed face. He was confused and beyond anxious as that slick voice started to seep into his skin. 

“Ah, Christopher, you’re still awake. May I please stay with you tonight? I know it’s quite unconventional, but, dear Ophelia is rather gone and Claus won’t be back from his errand in town until the early morning. I offered her my own bed but,” Christopher’s stomach curled on itself as he smiled up at him with the most white fangs he’d seen, since that moment. That long, painful, haunting night. “I couldn’t share a room with such a sweet lady don’t you think, gamin?” Christopher was merely frozen in the doorway. 

Ferrique blinked at him his mind racing, causing the director’s smile to fade. The owner of the opera always had a liking for the flawless boy who he had bought off the elderly owner of his now well known Opera house. The boy was the only child he’d seen who caught his eye with the merriest hint of a smile on polish smeared cheeks and rubbed raw elbows he flashed each moment he was trapped in a room with the, then, thirty three year old businessman. His ward was a mere child then, and even he knew that the boy wasn’t something he found romantic, he cared more deeply about him than that. Still, as he watched him mature and grow into a gorgeous and tuned actor, all Ferrique wanted to do was make his favorite ward his alone. 

Christopher had become enthralled with the world of art and stage, glowing with every production that was brought in. He would spend days practicing with Ferrique’s acting troupe, all hired novices who seemed to have large enough families to keep the shows running and plentiful during the early years of their career. Christopher could still probably name each and every one of them. By the time the boy was twelve he was already auditioning for leads, the then secondary director Signor Perdu saying he could play any man, woman, or king in the right footwear. 

Perdu was the main reason Ferrique waited until the boy turned sixteen to show his true affections. His secondary was also his best friend, and a slight genius in terms of design and stage given he had sketched out the tattered hotel as a lavish production house nearly blind drunk on twelve types of wine. Still, Perdu detested the idea of Ferrique actually loving any of his wards. Perdu was witty but dirt poor before he left the Opera with only his notes and half his account behind him. He looked down on Ferrique for treating his wards who had been nothing more than slaves more the same and took care of most of them behind Ferrique’s fatherly figure, which came naturally according to his friend. Perdu saw the wards as their family and always laughed out of sheer disbelief when love of any kind for, whom he considered, his children came up. Ferrique hadn’t wanted to hurt his friend by following after his heart, but it yearned to have the prodigy of Paris in it’s arms. Ferrique could think nothing better than awakening to his slumbering freckled face each day. 

So, the moment Perdu was presumed dead after nearly two months of being lost, Ferrique found he was one of the few with little to morn. Christopher was heartbroken by the development but he also began to see Ferrique more. Christopher soon told him near everything, from his admiration towards the, then in troupe, actor Alan Tuer-which may have sparked more than a fit of envy- to how he would read scripts over and over again just so he was certain he understood every facit of them. Every detail Ferrique earned he’d reward with small gifts and pleasantries, he’d take Christopher to every corner of Paris just to see him smile. 

He’d showered the boy with gifts and sent him sweet notes. And the boy absorbed every sweet word of it with the favor of a hungry dog. Christopher was sweet and naive in a way that brought Ferrique to his knees in joyous prayer. By the time Christopher was seventeen, they would slip into each other rooms in the darkest moments of night. Ferrique had to bury his temptations, accepting every frail breath as payment to tide him over till that glorious night. All throughout, Christopher lead him deeper and deeper into a spiral of longing and possessiveness to keep him safe at all costs. All Ferrique did was love him without saying it. He was terrified of the gorgeous boy he had fallen for, but still, he had gotten his wants and had taken care of his love for almost a decade. Seeing him perform just enlightened his want for him. 

Many times he could see people trying to decipher the secrets he locked away inside of him, but nearly all of them revolved around the boy who was staring at him with fear filled emerald eyes. He missed the sweet longing gazed he was once given. His soul yearned to kiss him with the earnestness of his love as they had so long ago. He could still feel the warmth of soft insides wrapped around him, still hear the moans echoing in the room just behind the frame he was close to throwing himself into. He wanted to grab the silent boy by his throat, to please him and make him fall apart under him again. He wants to bring him to tearful pleasure. 

Christopher was rock solid for nearly an entire two minutes before he pushed to door against the director’s face. He bolted to his bed, slamming his bedroom door shut and burying himself underneath his blankets. Ferrique near threw the girl in his arms away as a strong hand took her from him. Christopher was panting under his blankets, curling inward with a whimper as he heard a thumping against the doorway, a clear argument between the two men in his hallway. His breathe picked up as the noise silenced. 

Near immediately, a loud thump was heard and Christopher’s door slammed. He started to shake and tear up as he heard loud footsteps coming towards his room. He buried himself underneath the covers and comforters as his door was thrown open and a sickly sweet voice dug into his skin. 

“Why are you running from me, favori? I miss you, I just want to give you what I miss. Can’t I just give you a moment of what I miss? Please, l’ange, I miss you.”

Christopher let out a scream as his blankets were ripped from his fists. The Opera was stilled and in the hall a dazed Ophelia cried from the loud, horrifying shriek in her brother’s arms. Ferrique grabbed a fistful of Christopher’s hair as he tried to push himself off his bed and away from the monster trying to overpower him. He was in pain, flashes red and angry through his skull before he was thrown back into the sheets. Christopher bit his sheets as his thin shirt was ripped from the back, his legs tied to the bedposts with its remains, and his trousers jerked down. 

“Chistopher, you are mine. I just want to make you happy, Christopher. You’re alive because of me, and I will do as I wish. And I wish that you will always love me, sweet angel. I only want to make you happy.”

Claus had to bury his rage as he heard the howling cry of Christopher as a loud thump sounded from behind the locked door. Ferrique said he and his sister would be on the streets if he said a word of this, and given the man’s frail temper, he would not be pressed to do so. Ophelia seemed to whimper in his arms as he carried her, probably drugged and near weightless, body back to their room. He held back a shudder as another cry filled the hall. If only Vermillion were here. 

Christopher had a handkerchief wrapped through his mouth, but his screams couldn’t be muffled. Every noise sent a pang of anger and sorrow into Ferrique’s very soul. The director pinned him down as he bit into his shoulder, a harsh howl brought to silence as Christopher's chest was rammed into the bed by the man above him.

“Why do you hate me,” the director near wailed into the squirming boy’s ear as he halted himself in his ministrations against the weak, sacred form below him. He’d missed those searing, fleshy blooms across the pale freckled shoulders and chest hidden away for so, so long. He hadn’t seen Christopher laid out and bare since the night that the horrid albino boy had thrown him off of his angel. How hurt his love must be, with how distant he had become from their once passionate inferno. He was near tears as he gripped a fistfull of the sheriking boy’s cropped hairs.  
“You’re mine, favori, so why do you hate me! You love me, I know you do. I keep you alive and you must always love me in return.” 

Christopher let out a yelp as a thrust met his body. He was in deep pain as each unwanted movement met his lower half before bleeding marks were left across his body. His entire body was sore and dragged down to the lowest parts of hell as he buried into the pillows below him. His head was literally rammed against the headboard before he was pinned down on his stomach as tear started to stream from him, his throat raw and racked as his entire skeleton was jostled and tossed on the bed. Tears spoke for him and Ferrique began to slow, panting against his pulse.

The boy fought to swallow back bile as he smelled the other’s breath. He once found the scent comforting, the waft of mint and sweet near overpowering with the waves of nausea he was being buried under. His entire chest was wrecked with bites and sores that already left him near bursting. He’d wanted at least another three months without this treatment. Just to let the nightmares dull a bit. To keep his fragile heart an arms length away from the pain he was feeling again. He felt a hand against his chin, his body long since given up and pliant to the probing hands that had thrown him onto his side. He stared up into dark, empty eyes as his body screamed.

Ferrique’s angel let out a squeak of pain as he stared into his fathomless and hollow jade irises. He longed for the feeling of them intertwined. Longed to make Christopher feel his love and give him pleasure, but he was regressing again. His body accepted him, but the innocent creature underneath his skin was buried and far off. All he felt on his palms was tear stains and cold skin. He couldn’t feel elation or beauty, just confusion and hurt as he stilled inside the boy, making him shake with relief. 

The strike to his cheek was slight, given the ones he’d been faced with before, weak against his freckled cheek, unsure in a way Christopher couldn’t place. Ferrique was panting, sweat matting his dark brown hair, turning it black. The boy swallowed back a whimper as he was lashed at again. His cheek stung with ferocity that time. He could tell Ferrique was yelling at him, but his body had decided it wasn’t anything he’d need to hear. He knew it by now, wails of his unwanted love, confusion at the hand of the limp, near lifeless body before him. It protected him, keeping this slack mask. When he passed out he didn’t even cry. He felt used and worn and tired. He was less than worthless by the time his consciousness slipped away. 

He always felt worthless, like a toy that was thrown back to the same angry child over and over. He wanted to die as his eyes rolled back, his heart slowing. Ferrique called his name but it didn’t matter much. It didn’t matter to him that the body wasn’t in his bed. He didn’t stir as his bedroom door was caved in, and he most certainly didn’t feel sorrow when he was laid and covered in a different bed, one with much more furnishing and brighter lighting than his small cramped one. He was warm in the bed and his fear slipped away from his nightmares and into a dark dreamless nothing.


	10. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since the last chapter was so harsh, I don't think you all deserve to be left with a cliffhanger. Mostly recovery in this chapter

When Christopher awakened to bright sunlight, his heart seized in fear. The bed he was in was most certainly not his own, and just thinking of the nightmare that had been the night before sent him into an outburst of quaking anxiety. His body was frozen under the warm bulk of thick wool and cotton blankets. He was hyper aware of the ache on his lower half, the screaming sting of his torso and cheeks. His entire body shook and quaked as his mind delved deeper and deeper into fear and pain. He nearly screamed when he felt the hand on his shoulder. 

Gavroche flinched as he saw the frightened, heaving figure of his muse. Christopher’s skin was near pink from the amounts of marks and scratches all across his body. Christopher jolted upward but let out a cry near immediately after. 

“Where am I? Where’s Ferrique?” 

Gavroche’s chest felt heavy as he saw the tears peeking in the actor’s eyes. The writer had never seen how frail Christopher truly was and his heart sunk as he saw the boy sobbing as he gripped himself close. 

“He’s not here anymore. It’s alright, Christopher. You’re in my room. I won’t hurt you, I promise. Ferrique was hurting you and I couldn't listen to it anymore.” 

Christopher shook as Gavroche stood and walked towards the still open bedroom door. He swore to never enter another man’s room, not after that night nearly two years ago now. Sure, Ferrique had found ways into his own, but he never asked for a warm body next to him after he was used and thrown away.

“If you want to leave, the door’s unlocked. I’ll tell the troupe you caught a virus. If Ferrique comes up,” Gavroche slowly opened a drawer next to the bed. He held out a slim bronze key with a bright orange plume. “This locks the bedroom.” He reached back in and held up a silver key with a purple plume and held it out to him. “And that one locks the door to the apartment. Keep it on you, for safety. If even one person seems to come after you, look the door and keep yourself safe. They won’t look here first, I’m sure. Just keep yourself safe, and if you want, there’s food in the cupboard and coffee sitting on the desk. The organ box and piano aren’t very loud if you want to practice. I’ll tell Vermillion and Cecily you’re alright, she was fretting for the whole night. Call for me if you need it.”

Christopher was silent, wrapped in blankets, seated upright as he watched the hulking writer pull a large pot of coffee from a small stove and seat it on the desk before him before striding out through the thick velvet curtain he remembered from his first visit. The door was shut slow and soft, and Christopher ran and locked it with little to no resistance. Gavroche smiled at that. Christopher ducked back into bed, but he didn’t feel scared as he nuzzled into the warm sheets. He hadn’t felt blankets as warm or as soft before since his mother had wrapped him in a new cloth. 

He hadn’t remembered his mother since he was, well a child. It was strange. He might have willingly been used and tossed around, if had to support his mother. But that seemed a malicious thought, given how much she cared for him before her workplace caught a flame. He walked slow, body wrapped in the thick blankets, as he sat at the plush bench in front of the curtain. The bright carnation had dropped slightly and he noticed the water was murky. It worried him, since the flowers were one of the few things the writer had told him about. He picked it up gently, his aching body screaming as he stood up. He poured the water out and smiled as he refilled the thin porcelian vase. 

By the time practice downstairs had gotten far into blocking, Christopher was playing the piano slowly and soft. He let his feelings guide his hands, even though his heart wasn’t in the keys for a while. His chest hurt as he stood from the piano, leaving a soft ringing in the wide room. Chris poured coffee slowly, staring out the wide windows that lit the whole room. 

A knock broke him from his thoughts and the familiarity made his heart seize. His breath grew heavy as the hall creaked softly. He stood, chair squeaking before he stepped back, his body’s ache growing faint as he tried to get as far away from the door before a voice sounded.

“Chrisy? It’s Vern. Are you alright?”

Christopher’s eyes widened before he bolted to the door, key fumbling in his hands before he opened it. Vermillion nearly feel in as he was tackled by the small boy. Vern hugged him tight, as his eyes began to water and gripped him tighter than a steel trap. Vermillion sighed, gripping the boy’s hair and rubbed his buzz cut to soothe him.

“It’s alright Chrissy. You’ll be okay. I’ve got you now, I’ve got you.”

For awhile he just sobbed. Christopher sobbed and sobbed and sighed when his tears couldn’t fall. He didn’t care about his still tattered shirt or his wrecked body or the aches that wouldn’t cool. All he felt was the sorrow that had been boiling inside from the day he’d been brought onto his knees at seventeen. His heart was clutched in its veins and for a flash he wished that the chest that held him was broader, he wished for soft hands and dark eyes to be looking down on him and he almost muttered a name that seared his heart as Vermillion’s fair and near beige lips brushed his temple. 

On the piano was a simple cardstock card, Christopher’s own writing jolted and scratchy and right next to it was a folded parchment in an envelope with his name. He’d read it out of pure curiosity but was trembling when he finished the eloquent piece. Every letter was refined but still, it didn’t seem gaudy, only pristine and beautiful, like the mask it’s writer wore. 

‘Dear Christopher,  
Please, don’t cry for what he did to you. You should always know that you are stronger than him. If you leave, I won’t follow unless you wish. But if you are in pain from this, I will not hesitate to bring that monster to face his judgement for something that horrid. No shame should be put on you. You don’t deserve that. I will knock precisely three times before entering and if me sharing a room with you causes distress I will exit and let you enter back into your own room. I don’t want to cause harm.   
Please, Keep yourself safe,  
Gavroche Fausser’

Christopher sighed as Vermillion rubbed his back, still shaking.  
“I want to stay in this room until that monster’s dead. Please, keep me safe. Until he comes back. I love you, Vern, but he won’t hurt me and you won’t feel guilty for me if I’m with someone else who can break Ferrique’s jaw.”

Vern nodded, staring off as he wiped away the long trenches carved into freckled cheeks. A soft song filed the room, a small hum that grew into a bright song with quiet words and inflections that brought a heavy tiredness into his bones. Vern was frozen by the soft voice, just over his shoulder.

‘Près de la côte, ton cœur rugit,  
Mais depuis la nuit, vos passions meurent  
Et si ma voix devait vous conduire loin,  
Alors que votre âme reste à jamais.

 

Pour chaque nuit mon coeur se refroidit,  
Mais toi, chère enfant, tu dormiras pour toujours.  
Et si mon coeur vous cause la douleur  
Laissez-moi être vous gagner mon amour et récolter

 

Pour toi cher soleil, ne partira jamais  
Tant que mon cœur sanglant pleure  
Alors, savez-vous tomber dans le sommeil rêvé.’

Vermillion was cautious as he watched the still singing writer pull a cotton blanket up to Christopher’s chin. 

“I have to thank you for keeping him safe, but he doesn’t need to be pacified.”  
“I’m not pacifying him, just keeping him safe here. If he wants to leave, he has the key out. You can stay if you wish.” He looked at Vermillion and for the first noticed how bright the dark, shaded pools were. He hadn’t seen under the mask but he wondered what color his irises were hidden away. “He’d be better with people he knows. I need to go back down, breaks coming.” As he stood, Vern had to step back to keep away from the swell of his chest.   
“He still isn’t something you should keep away from Ferrique. He can’t stay away from his life if he’s going to be successful. And we can protect him!”  
“But he can’t move on within a minute of being assaulted. I don’t want to see him at rehearsal today. If you come back, tell the troupe he’s been vomiting. Just, make sure he’s alright before rehearsal ends.”

Vermillion tried to follow after, to argue more but the hulking figure was through the curtain before he could even move and the door rang in his ears with the first inhale of his breath. He sighed, a soft groan drawing his attention. Christopher hadn’t turned but, a sheen of sweat coated his cheek. 

“It’s alright,” he whispered softly, stroking back his bright curls. “You’re okay now. I’ve got you.”   
Chistopher dreamt of harsh mouths on his neck falling away to warm hands and sweet serenades as his entire world went black.


	11. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first performance of Fausser's debuted is quickly approaching and Christopher's strain is more lax than it has been for years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More acting! More creepy ass sociopathic thought and some more scenes from the play. Enjoy!

Christopher’s footsteps echoed as he was cornered by two towering brick walls that seemed to stretch wider and wider as he ran upstage, frantically panting. He tripped a groan echoing through him before a laugh made him freeze.

“Come now, Domn, you really don’t think you can take my product without paying.” The glint of a bright blade lit up Christopher’s cheek as he shakily stands, facing his attacker.

Andare was in a ratty brown and cheesecloth suit, his coat drawn up tight with a fan on the other side of the tarp, keeping his off white scarf flapping towards his prey. 

“You don’t have to get any scars, I just want my prize back, just hand me it’s key and I’ll let you go. I’ll even pay.”  
He snarled at the figure, the brick’s scrolling with him as he was backed into a corner.   
“He isn’t an it! Leave Fiu alone. He doesn’t want you.” A sharp gasp filled the stage as Christopher was gripped by the throat.   
“It doesn’t know what it wants!,” Andare was letting out a bellowing laughter that made some of the actors tense offstage. He squeezed Christopher's collared throat as he pulled him close to his chest. “Give it back,” the blade glittered like the real thing as it reflected the speckled cheeks. “then this won’t hurt as much for you.”

Christopher was panting as the lights dimmed the orchestra swelling as a light below them showed the raised arm with the blade at a direct arch towards Domn Ronald’s jugular. Quickly, the flame was cupped as Andare’s arm descended with flourish and a trumpet blast covered scapping canvas and feet, Christopher rushing offstage and crossing to the other side within seconds of the horn’s echo. 

Vern was already onstage, going into an aria as other actors threw coins into his hat. Cecily gripped his shoulder as he kneeled over himself, sweat soaking his clothes.

“Hey, it’s alright now. You need a drink?”

He nodded frantically as he mentally kicked himself in the stomach. He shouldn’t be freezing up like this before the final rehearsal. The show premiered tomorrow and his mind still dragged him back to that night. All of those nights. After awhile, his mind just showed him a repeat of every assault he had been subject to, he would pant and cry out in his sleep, all to no avail as he was just dragged down, down, down, into a pool of writhing clones, bloody and tear scarred.

He refused to return to his room, needing a locked door to even properly sleep, and with little argument on his host’s side, Gavroche retired in the actor’s cramped space. They kept civil distance, yet some nights they’d share the same flat, Chris curled in the plush bed while the writer slumbered over his keys. He hadn’t said Gavroche’s name outside of the flat, not out of fear of hurting his pride or insulting him. He gulped a breath as he tried to move his thoughts away from Gavroche. There wasn’t a point to thinking of him, he’d just distract him. Why did he distract him so much though?

Once upon a time, before the first night he’d felt ‘another man’s love’, he thought he loved Vermillion. He was terrified and tried to bury it since he was always a brother to him, but as days went on all he could think of was what Vermillion felt for him. Now, he wondered what the writer hid under his mask. He let his mind wander to what Gavroche would do if they lived together or if they shared the same bed. Why would only two people every share a bed though? He was used to entire huddles of children around him but he’d never slept with a single person.

He tried to still his heart as he looked out onstage, Vern clutching a screwdriver from behind him as Andare seemed to curl in over him. It was so familiar that it made his knees knock together. Cecily rubbed his back, trying to coax him back to himself but, he didn’t mind being in the state, he’d be dying soon after all.

Fiu backed against the wall behind him, voice sharp and acidic as he held out the screwdriver.   
“I will not know the glories of life all man was given for I am wrong. I am ill made. I am man made! I should be ostracized yet I am shown and flaunted as a new toy not to be touched or seen.”  
Andare was backed away quiet as he tried to calculate how to approach the ‘ludicrous creation’.   
“Calm down, my doll. You aren’t a toy, you’re my glorious angel.”  
Fiu snarled as he lunged at him. “Shut up! You killed him! He loved me and you killed him!” Fiu gripped his side, tears streaming, and Christopher’s eyes widen as he hugged his sides, not having seen Vern cry since the night. “I am real! You can’t see how I am real but I am! I am not real because you refuse to see me as real. And until you do,” he panted, turning the weapon to his chest and yelling as he ran to the cornered inventor and pushed it through his shirt, a bag of red dyed water seeping through his beautiful green blouse. Vern spat out a bright stream of dark, near black liquid with a thickener of yellow syrup, gasping as he stumbled back. He fell to his knees, panting and gasping as Andare ran to his side only to be thrown away with an angry grunt. Fiu glared at him, his voice laden with pain and defiance.  
“I-if,” Fiu’s body shook and spattered as he spoke. “If you w-won’t, let me be the same as man... Let me be dead.” His growl overpowered the stage as he fell, a large gush coming from his mouth and staining the stage. Andare falls to his knees, finger brushing the lifeless face.  
“Forsaken god. It can’t feel emotions next time.”

A large rapping sounded, making Vermillion jerk his head up. “Not even close Signore Avidita! Please go over your script while our Doll gets his makeup fixed.”  
“I will not! We still have to do the final act and I refuse to be dragged back to that flat.”  
Chris walked out, holding out a script. “Here, let him read the line and then repeat it word by word until he can do it without seeing it.”  
“Why would I do that?”   
Chris screwed up his face at that loud, near laughing response. “So that we can actually move along? I would very much prefer it.” 

Andare took it with a grumble but a thought lit his mind and stroked flames in his gullet. How he’d longed to go after the bright flame of a boy. And when he’d come up to him, face in such assertive annoyance, he couldn’t help but find it humorous. 

‘Silly that he speaks so harshly. He doesn't even realize he already belongs to me.’

He wouldn’t utter the phrase but his mind whispered it every time he caught the boy glaring daggers at him with his gold flecked eyes. The boy clearly disliked him, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t fall. They always fell, like lemmings. He couldn’t help the smirk he flashed the figure offstage, especially given how vulnerable he was behind a curtain. 

Christopher ignored the eyes on his torso as he let Claus finish up the scarlet trail from his chest to his neck. It wasn’t much more than some staining on the skin but far off in the mirror, it looked as if he had a flesh wound. Gavroche had taught Claus that little trick too. Amazing how handy a single man could be. But, he couldn’t focus on that not now. As Andare delivered his line with poignant rage against the doll, Christopher held back a deep shudder.

“Forsaken god, why must I be cursed so! I gave you life, perfect, innocent life! And you squander it, with emotion and feeling. How depraved are you god, to tarnish my perfect work.” With a sharp severity he pulled the key that peaked from the corpses shirt, making Vern jolt for a mere second before he fell still again, and held it to the sky, staring up at the writer watching in the rafters as he bellowed. “I forsake the god who took my image and made it his own! May he rot, and may I arise victorious in the ashes of his own images.”


	12. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The writer and the actor reveal they're feelings at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm combining my original chapters 11 and 12 cause 11's kinda pointless by itself.

Vermillion was still wiping the time consuming makeup from his cheeks. Christopher just hummed at the sight as he leaned towards the stage as he listened to Cecily yelling off at a kneeled Andare. He was still sore all over from the intensity of the performance he’d given. He handed Vermillion another towel as he watched the duel between Andare and Cecily.

Gavroche tensed as Andare sang his final reprise, hitting each note with the severity of a man enraged by his death. The Dollmaker was a tragic character in the way that no one will know why he would go to such extremes to chain a creation who only wishes to be freed. The second half of the play was trail after trail of the Dollmaker creating new life, a broken girl who couldn’t sing and only wished to hold him close to her offbeat heart. A man who refused to move and would profusely yell at the mere sight of him, for he was frightened of himself and all around him. Then, and with a depleting mind, two siblings, Claus and Ophelia happy to reprise themselves, who stole and cheated and killed all for they found joy in seeing people enraged and pained. 

None of the Dollmaker’s creations fit his wants, his unaltered desire. He confesses to Dama Ronald, affronted by the charge the man has for killing her husband, that the allegations were true. However, she soon thanks him, due to her trails finding someone to kill Ronald for her. Soon he reveals that he, in fact, created life to soothe his want for a wife, for someone who wouldn’t laugh or mock him. That was what drove this song, the only thing that made Gavroche forget the sickness the man formed in his stomach. The Dollmaker was angry yes, seeing as how Dama Ronald currently had knocked him near dead with his own tool, a large mallet, and his final cry was that of pain and rage, but the pain, the way he called out to the Doll and wondered if they’d meet in the depths of hell, that brought tears to Lady Cruella’s eyes. That made the stagehands pause and stare at the man who refused to be touched by them. That showed every single soul in the Opera Ferrique how Andare became a prima operetta. But, Andare didn’t think of that as he sang, as tears ran down his white smeared cheeks. 

He thought of how awful it was that no one in the audience tomorrow night would get to hear it. He thought, ‘What a shame it is mio angelo will miss so much come the second act.’

 

\-----

The whole ordeal of the final rehearsal left Vermillion crashed on Gavroche’s bed as Christopher sat and sipped a small cup of brandy he’d brought from his own room.

“Didn’t see you as a drinker.”  
Chris smirked over his glass, eyes twinkling in soft firelight, dim enough to light the area behind the curtain but not enough to reach the window behind him.  
“I don’t usually ask people to do it with me.” He let out a hum as he let his elbows lift his head. “I can appreciate a certain type of alcohol just not a large amount. Do you drink often?”  
Gavroche shook his head, his small tumbler still marginally full. He wasn’t one for extravagant drinks or the carnal sins in general, his father ingrained that solidly. “Always afraid I’ll make a fool of myself if I do such a thing.”  
Christopher made a noise in his throat between a giggle and a laugh that made his heart flutter. “It’s just a little strong. You won’t strip naked and run through Paris, I’m not that heavy. Come on!,” Chris tapped the glass toward him. 

For a flash, Gavroche thought of a passionate woman once referred to as an Eve of his village, one who would rise out of his father’s bed many a time, always luring people away from comfort. He wondered if Christopher was that same breed of temptation. 

“I’d prefer not.”  
Christopher just shrugged, still smiling, as he pulled the glass back to his lips. He took a sip of his glass, looking up towards the large window lit by dim oil lamps. “Do you ever use the balcony at night? Vern loved cleaning up here just to feel the wind and see the streets.”   
“I can’t say I have. Did you like it the same way he did?” Chris shook his head, hair bobbing slightly as he smiled.   
“It’s so bright. You can’t see cause it’s tinted, the way it turns indigo against the floor during the afternoon was something I always liked. I thought you'd have seen it.”  
“Do you want to show me?”

The actor just flashed him a grin, taking a gulp of his drink before standing, a flush coating his perked cheeks. He held out his hand before pulling the towering man towards the door with a soft laugh. “It's brighter than the stars in a single pane of glass when the lanterns light up. You must see it.”

A cross of thoughts burst behind two skulls different but adding a glow to the pair as their dilated pupils met.  
‘His nose crinkles when he's excited and holding back a laugh.’  
‘Gavroche’s eyes light up the mesh covering them when he's excited.’ 

Christopher couldn’t help but feel his heart flutter for a moment when Gavroche stepped in front of him. He could almost see the color of his eyes, a near dull golden spark seeming to light up the dark pockets under the porcelian. 

Christopher opened the door with his wrists and sent the two of them tumbling to the freezing concrete of the balcony. Christopher rolled over sputtering as he stretched and squirmed out from under the writer, peels of laughter erupting from him and ringing down to empty streets.

“God, I haven’t done anything that stupid in years,” he giggled, oblivious of the seated figure. 

Gavroche was smiling as he stared up at the shimmering yellow flames behind thin, crystal shaped lights. His village had nothing on the streets of orange and butter coating the smooth, glossy cobblestones. Christopher had leaned his weight on him and made a soft humming noise that froze both of them.

Gavroche had never seen so much red in his life before he looked down. 

“I never want to see you any other way.”  
Christopher stared up at him and tried to hold back his thoughts before the gurgled out of him but it rushed past his lips. “There’s another way I can think of.”

The flash of promiscuous Eve came to mind but he couldn’t help but focusing on the image of a reddened sprawled out Christopher even more. His eyes slowly trailed the sinking lines of freckles to the speckled chest all the way down to the curve of his collar. His adam's apple bobbed as Christopher tried not to crumple from the gaze raking over him. He’d never felt such warmth. Hunger always seemed cold, but the balcony seemed to radiate as the figure over him grew closer.

“What way could be any more glorious than you like this?”  
A soft chuckle filled the late winter night. “Maybe you with that mask off. Or would you look better with it in your bed with me?”

Gavroche bit down his thoughts. How he knows he should be shocked or angry at such a brash statement, but all he could feel was relief and warmth. 

“Maybe just you in my bed is all I want.”  
Christopher looked up at him before leaning up on his elbows. “You don’t have to rush if you want. I want to know more but I can wait.”  
Gavroche just smiled, his face flushing. “I could say the same to you.”  
“And I’d mean it just as much.”  
“Then, let’s wait on this,” he tapped the porcelian softly, humming. “It’s more what’s under it than above.”

“Then,” Chris had climbed into his lap, arms slowly climbing up Gavroche’s sloping shoulders, warming him from outside in. “I’ll wait to see what your eyes look like in the streets of Paris. Good?”  
“Very.”

Their kiss lasted just a couple beats too long, and Chris almost panted when he let go of the plane of shoulder, but he flashed Gavroche a heavy lidded smile that made his thought melt and dim out with the warm light of the sunrise.


	13. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another revelation of the writer and his history.

Christopher let out a groan as he rolled onto a wide chest that enveloped him. When he opened his eyes he had to cover his mouth from the sight before him. Gavroche wasn’t wearing his mask.

Hulking mounds of burnt flesh covered his face, like red clay dried over porcelain skin coating his eyelids, boils brushing over his cheeks and his nose. His skin looked nearly scaly from the scarring and was practically burnt black towards his right side, buried in the pillows below him. Christopher wanted to trace his fingers over the plane of skin, the tantalizing rise and fall of a human terran calling to him but he feared waking the giant. The warmth from another body over him made his head jerk up. 

Vern held up a finger pulling him up slowly before bringing him in. The blue glass was shut softly as Vern bounced behind a still frozen Christopher.

“So… You did the deed huh? And you’re not in shock clearly.”  
“Did you bring out a blanket? And pillows?”  
His friend only chuckled. “I’d be a terrible person if I didn’t. You’d damage your spine before a show!”  
“We didn’t do the ‘deed’. But I may have kissed him. A couple times.” 

Vermillion’s grin could’ve spanned the Seine. He’d never been so proud of Christopher in all of his life. For years he’d prayed and asked and hoped that Christopher would find someone, anyone, to fill the dark gaping pit that Ferrique had carved out of his friend. He had sought everything but nothing could match true love like the way he looked up at the writer when he woke up after the accident. That’s when he decided he could trust anyone with Christopher’s gaged heart. And he couldn’t have been more happy to be right.

“A couple?”  
“Multiple,” the freckled teen muttered with a shrug of his shoulders. His entire body was nearly the color of the peony on the piano the day they’d meet.   
“You rapscallion! And before his world premiere! By Dieu, we shall be struck by a sick lead actor!” 

Chris gave him a shove as he toddled to the stove. “Did you see his face?”  
Vermillion tensed at that, staring down at his feet. “Yes… It’s right awful.”  
Chris nodded, a small, wispy smile on his face. “It looks gorgeous though. His jaw shape, his scars. Dieu, just imagine his eyes! They must be stunning.”

Vermillion blinked for a moment at the image of Christopher fixing the coffee pot and digging through the ice box in the epitome of a domestic dream. He’d seen the same scars as him, had he not? The gnarled black and mahogany marks screaming in pain. He called -that- gorgeous.

“Gorgeous?”  
“Yes, absolutely stunning. I feel awful though. He didn’t want me to see it yet. If he’s worried, don’t lie to him. He deserves to know.”  
Vern just nodded and sat to watch as Chris fixed a poached egg and a couple strips of thin bacon and golden bread. 

By the time Gavroche got off the balcony and into the dining area, Christopher was well into poaching his fourth egg. The silence that filled the room wasn’t completely suffocating but just unsettling enough that Vermillion nearly choked on his toast. 

“Christopher. I can expla-”  
“There’s no need to.” The smile he wore almost drowned out Gavroche’s fears. Almost. “It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me. Gavroche, I saw you and I don’t want to run away from you. You’re still beautiful.” Christopher cursed himself for his trembling tone, he was going to land on his face if spoke like this onstage.   
“I-It shocked me, yes, but, you’re still beautiful, and I could never say I hated you! Especially n-not over some stupid scar. Gavroche,” Chris held out a hand, tears in his eyes. “I couldn’t love you any more than I do now that I’ve seen it. It’s beautiful.”

A tear wound down Gavroche’s cheek, a deep sniffle filling the room. Vern wasn’t chewing anymore, head whipping from face to face.   
“You’re beautiful Gavroche. I love you.” 

A warm cup of chocolate was in his hands and a brown eyed boy with mousy hair was whispering sweet things that made Gavroche redden. His father was glaring from the corner, heat blistered hands balled into fists. He saw the mousy boy buried in snow and felt his tears fall in waves. He felt the sting of melted steel on his cheek, he felt it burrow under his pours. He heard his own scream knocking in his chest. The only difference was, now an angel hugged him tight and whispered ‘I love you.’ Now, when he hits the snow with only a bag covering his face, the angel tells him ‘You’re beautiful.” Now, when he’s curled on the streets, an angel hold his head and rubs his hair as he whispers ‘I could never love you more.’

Christopher cradles his head as Gavroche sobs and sobs and sobs. By the time he calms down, the sun lit a slim trail of robin egg speckles across the floor, nearly brushing the edge of Gavroche’s mask, lying on the hardwood strips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Abuse, abuse, it's overused and obtuse but I had to explain the scars somehow. *shrugs* Eh.


	14. 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chapter from Andare's perspective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ones slightly longer than chapter 11 by itself so I'm posting it by itself. Enjoy my sociopath. Lots of uncomfortable possessive behavior and belief of ownership over a person if that disturbs you.

Andare saw something he’d never seen before. A boy who was in love with a man other than him that was practically made for him. Andare had been a connoisseur of lovers and would take any and all of his obsessors to the same bed he slept in. He would shower them with affection and absorb them into his harem of sorts, the people he’d go to just to please his needs. But this boy, the most fine specimen he’d seen, was a challenge he was growing aggravated by. Every time he got close, the angel slipped from his arms. 

First there were all the rehearsals where the crew had turned upon him. He tried his hardest, working to become a better actor and absorb into the troupe, but he was given inexcusable working conditions. Not only were the other’s subpar save the main sextuplet of director, actors, and dancing dio, they all seemed out to get him. 

The man handling the flies aimed for his blond head, the costume maker would insult him for mixing up the poorly labeled pieces, and the Opera owner refused to give even a molecule of information on the boy.

The few times he’d tried he’d been meet with immediate resistance and near deafening rage. 

“My actors are not to be toyed with, and Signor Riccioletti is not to be touched nor coveted by the likes of you, my good sir, regardless of what those in Florence do with boys as lovely as him. Signor Riccioletti is not for you to spoil, nor for your own liking. If you ask anything about him in this light again. Well, I can promise you your understudy will have a larger paycheck.” 

The crazed man nearly threw a mountain of papers at him. For asking about a romantic interested. Truly, he’d never heard of something as idiotic as that before. The boy was clearly made to join his little group. Why would he not? He was gorgeous in all the right ways and he was the antithesis of his own refined, pale figure, with his slim, blemished, sparkling form. Truly, not a single person in the troupe caught Andare’s eye like the boy. But that director. Well, he was the real problem.

Sure, the owner made threats, but the masked writer and director was a genius and a curse. With every undoubtedly impressive stage piece and scene he made came a starker line between Andare and his prey. Christopher barely shared a line with him where he wasn’t yelling or dying. He always brought his little lovers to their knees shaking with his words. Not to mention the amount of times he could kiss them with a couple of flubbed lines. 

Why couldn’t he just have him. All he wanted was to have his gift, his prize. The only logical conclusion recently would be that his lover was taken prior. Not only had he seen Ferrique take the boy out of rage but he’d seen how comfortable the writer was with his obvious muse.

He’d been out smoking a cigarette after a fitful sleep with a woman he’d found not far away when a loud thump hit his ears. He ignored it until he heard the laugh. That laugh like a chorus of bells and harps all blended into a single high note. The sound of a low rumble from a blind man playing the sharp keys of a piano. He turned just in time to see a speckled, red haired angel climb into the lap of a slimy, masked devil. 

It didn’t take long for him to hatch a plan against the creature that had his prey by the lips. Especially not when his mask fell off and the demon’s transgression were painted for all the world to see.


	15. 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The shows about to start and Chrisy's getting jittery.

An air of tension met Christopher as he shrugged on his coat, thick lines of white and red patterned across his face, drowning his spots.

“I feel sick Vern. I think I’m going to sweat through my shirt!”

Vermillion rubbed his back, a stark line with near silver highlight along his bare arms and wrists, every joint colored with a hand painted joint. “Just be glad you’re not as dolled up as me. You look really pale though.”  
Christopher groaned wrapping the scarf tighter over his scrawny neck. “I don’t know if I can do this. I’m so nervous.”   
“You can, I trust you.”

Christopher turned to see Gavroche smiling. For the first time Christopher saw that his eyes with a bright golden color, the shade of ripe barley and honeycomb. Gavroche’s mask hadn’t been left upstairs but was now small in his wide hands, held out by the eyes to the small freckled actor.

“I believe you’ll need this for the masquerade scene. It’ll fit if you angle it right. Cecily can help.”  
Christopher blinked a couple dozen times more before he sniffed.   
“Oh god. You’re gonna make him cry before the premiere.”  
“I-It’s… It’s just. Just-”  
“Almost time to go.”

All three of them turned to see a smirking Andare leaning against the stage wall. “You should get in the orchestra pit, Monsieur Fausser. The opera can’t really start without its director at the helm!” The Italian slinked forward, hands crossed behind his back as he leaned towards the freckled actor and flashed him a grin that would make a wolf whimper. “You should get to your mark. Curtain’s coming down, piccolo angelo. Don’t wanna be late.”

Christopher shook as the man stepped away from his eyeline, going off behind the fly with a pace that a tortoise could out run. 

Cecily ran over, face halfway beige, the other stark white. “Chrisy, be careful. Ophelia said that she heard him and Cabal talking about something very strange. She’s worried that your a target for something.”  
“Like what?,” Vermillion asked with a slightly cracked voice.  
“Like Andare himself. Up to something and it is not a comfort to see him trying to worry you.”

Christopher gripped his shoulders, a soft breath seeping through him. “He won’t break me. I can beat him. I will live, even if he hurts me. I have Gavroche, and you, and Vern, and Claus and Ophelia. I won’t be alone. Someone will know if something happens to me. We just have to keep Andare away if he is coming after me for some malicious reason.”

Vern was squeezing his arm, but Gavroche stared into his eyes. It calmed Christopher within a flicker of light. 

A smile crept over Gavroche’s faces as he whispered to him, near the spotted shell of Chris’ ear. “Don’t let him get to you. I will kill for you and I will always be here to save you.”  
Christopher let a sigh seep from his nostrils before he said, “Let’s hope that second promise won’t need to be fulfilled before you get a carrier going.”

All he needed was to share a smile and he knew he’d make it through opening night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOPE YOURE READY FOR ALL THE BULLSHIT IM GONNA PULL FROM MY ASS. THE NEST FOUR CHAPTERS ARE AWFUL IM SO SORRY


	16. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The show begins, but something's off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HERE COMES MY BULLSHIT LEADUP ABD CLIMAX.

The opening went without a single  
hiccup. The snow flew, the wind   
whipped his scarf and The Doll locked outstanding onstage. Gavroche felt his chest swell with pride as he watched the way Vermillion moved, every joint twitching with exactness and smooth complexity. He’d made a bold move by writing Romanian songs, but the story was based off a short fairy tale one of his friends told him, an immigrant from the bitter, cold country.

A doll is made by a harsh and greedy man, Lattis Chaiscoscki, who understand emotions by talking and playing with children. One day, a man with a wife who hates him sees the doll and falls in love with its innocence. He begs the Doll Maker to give him the beauteous creature but, only seeing the doll as a mean of income and fame, he refuses. 

Out of desperation, the man hides away in a storage closet and waits for the Doll Maker to tire away to sleep. Once he’s left and every candle is blown out, the man took the key that locked the doll in sleep and brought them out from their box. He liked that the girl never gendered the doll but he felt the story would have an issue flowing if he didn’t name it, thus calling it Fur, or boy. 

The man takes the doll to his home and is almost immediately confronted by a wife who sees it as a disgrace and shames him for finding an automaton fascinating. Cecily was bitter but she showed disgust and detestment towards the innocent creation because she sees it as a mark of her husband’s desperation to be loved. Dama Ronald didn’t care for the Doll because it represented the affection she despised, the feelings she didn’t have and thus resented. Gavroche felt it better explained her reaction. 

So, heartbroken by the Dama’s reaction, Ioan begins to weep and the doll understands sadness by touching the man’s tears. By learning sadness, an emotion children ignore even more than fear and anger, the doll begins to wipe tears of oil, something he was grateful Vermillion let him practice with.   
The doll tells Ioan of all the pain he’d felt in his dreams with a ballad that Gavroche had loved every time he heard it come from Vermillion’s vibrant base.

‘With a heart of cogs and gears,  
May those who made me never see my tears  
Like yours.  
I am not of the flesh, I have no perfected image to be made from for  
My heart is cogs and wire,  
But now in it sparks desire.’

Soon, Ioan joins him, dancing around his empty bedroom with a doll who has first learned sadness. Christopher’s voice fit it so seamlessly, nervous and shaky with the ethereal smoothness of Vermillion

‘And If I should say goodbye,/  
‘Oh, please don’t tell me goodbye/  
Let my heart spin and catch fire/  
A blinding, glorious light./  
And may you hold me tight/  
Keep you cradled in my arms, cogs/  
Kiss me as you hold me/   
Wires and cogs, I’ll kiss you goodnight’  
Goodnight.’

When the doll felt love for the first time, a wire short circuited their heart. The doll collapses and begins to kiss and kiss and kiss every inch of the man until his wife comes in. She is in hysterics, Cecily yelling and throwing the set of cheap, sugar glasses to the ground in her rage. The man and his doll are thrown to the streets and he is quick to take the creation to a scientist he knows well. 

The scientist marvels at the creation and explains that somehow, the manufactured life has built it’s own soul. The kiss made the soul feel love for the very first time, and now, love controlled the doll’s every thought. By the end of the first act, the doll and the man were sharing a bed and discussing love before the lights dimmed.

Now, at the start of Act two, Andare was seething over his lost doll. This scene went perfectly. Andare hatched his plan to steal his invention and to get rid of the obsessive man. He sang his dark and melodious song of how he would gain back the gift he himself owns. But there’s the key of what caught Gavroche off guard. Never did the Doll Maker call the Doll his property, nor did he see it as his right. It was only a brief mention a single phrase before the searing monologue but it caught him all the same.

Soon, his scene ended though and the Doll was leading Domn Ronald through a market as the two sang a duet of the world and its beauties, the Doll pointing out humorous beauty, like a child with a dime on his nose or horse dung in the road, while Ioan showed him pretty women and scenery and paintings on the sides of buildings as his own idea of beauty, all leading to the gypsies.

The girl who told him the story was obsessed with gypsies and if one thing could honor her it was Ophelia’s character. A fiery, black haired dancer brings the doll into her tent and shows them her people while Ioan fears his Doll will be corrupted. But, by seeing how well the gypsies accept the doll and how interested they are in the gypsy’s society, he begins to lose his fear and the three sing of the glories of living on the move. 

Act two dies down by then, but Act three started alarmingly far from where it had begun. The Doll Maker had a new creation with him, Cabal, a muscular, dim-minded man with the jaw of a marble sculpture. He wasn’t painted like Vermillion and Gavroche knew that the scene was supposed to be how the Doll Maker plotted to track down the man but, that was through his network of locksmiths and scientists, not another doll. 

He couldn’t focus on the next scene, how the doll took Ioan to a lake and the two both discovered sexual love through metaphor that he’d carefully chosen and selected to only show through their hand gripping each other as they kissed. He couldn’t focus until Andare came back onstage before intermission. 

This was the scene where, with the Doll sleeping at the lake, Ioan is meet by the Doll Maker after going to see the scientist and is chased down the alleyway. The doll, on the left side of the stage gets up groggily and searches for Ioan before become worried and just as the doll screams his name, Ioan trips. That’s when both Cabal and the Doll Maker stand above a quivering Christopher, just before the lights go out. 

That wasn’t how it went. There wasn’t a knife, there wasn’t a single string to signal the lights and there definitely wasn’t any dramatic killing of Ioan. And then, within seconds, the curtains shut and the stage hand runs onstage, holding out his hands to signal the audience. 

“Ladies and Gentlemen, that is the end of our first two acts! Stay for the intermission and the ballet performance.” The stage hand was sweating and his eyes kept darting to Gavroche, so he nodded as he jumped up and bowed to the clapping audience as they walked away. 

Gavroche jumped backstage to see Madame Cruella with a head wound.   
The stagehand followed after, running to her with a damp towel. 

“It was some group of thugs! They came in and started talking and knocked her out with the costume designer. I don’t know what happened to the actors but they all scattered. Something came in and scared everyone on this side.”  
“Without any noise?”   
“It was all while the orchestra was playing. There weren’t any screams but they weren’t silent as death either.  
Andare said ‘he’d be on the sight of sin’ and that really confused me.”  
Gavroche just nodded, running up the rafters. “Make sure Cruella’s safe and help any actor’s with injuries.”

Going into the loft, he slipped onto the stairwell that leads to the flats. He tried not to panic, to keep steady and to know what he had to do to protect Christopher and whether they’d have to destroy the first piece he’d debuted.

He busted the door to Christopher’s flat to see Vermillion, Cecily, and Claus all filled with gags and bindings in front of Andare, Cabal and Ferrique seated on the small bed. In Andare’s lap, lay Christopher Riccioletti, beaten and bleeding, with tattered costume and a bloody jaw.


	17. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andare and Gavroche have a confrontation.

Christopher let out a whine as Andare yanked up his hair. Tears had dug trenches in his stage makeup and his body was sore from the kicks Cabal had given it to keep him quiet. He let out a gasp as he saw Gavroche, eyes wet and face set in a scowl. He didn’t have the energy to shudder as wet lips touched his temple.

“You’re quite late, dear writer. Tell me, does that scar make you slower or is it just hard for a monster to keep up with things. Regardless, I think you can see what I’ve done. Don’t worry, your audience will be taken out of the theatre by the end of intermission. You see, I have a friend in one of the smaller gangs in Italy and she rather likes getting to see me. She’s especially excited to meet this,” he slowly traced Christopher’s aching jaw, making him flinch ever so slightly. “Seeing as how she’s quite the entertainer.”

Christopher wanted to bit him, to kick him or throw him over his shoulder. But his entire body hurt and his hands were tied to his knees. Plus he doubted Andare would ever let go of him unless he was unconscious or dead.

“Get away from him! Let go of him and keep away.”  
“Oh yes?” Andre's voice rising to a higher pitch as he leans towards the hulking figure. “You think he was made for someone as disgusting as you? Clearly he’s meant for someone who can lavish him.” Christopher shuddered as he kissed his still stinging cheek. “He’s made for someone who can actually make him beautiful and adored. What do you have?”  
Christopher smiled faintly as he whispered to himself.  
Andare froze as he saw the boy’s lips move. “What was that, mio angelo?”  
“He has my heart. And you have my hatred.”

Before Christopher could even form a snarl he was smacked by the man behind him.   
“You liar!,” Ferrique screamed as he grabbed the boy’s arm. “You’re heart is mine! You gave it to me years ago. You liar!”   
Cabal grabbed the man, laughing. “God, you sick oldman. You sound like a lunatic. The kid’s delusional. Let him rave until that masked freak’s gone.”

Christopher squirmed, yelling as Andare clawed at his throat. He kicked and yelled until a large hand took his own.   
“Andare, he’s not a goddamn gift you get after a performance. Let him go. He’s not your property.”

The actor just laughed. “But he’s your’s right? He can only ever be with you, you disgusting freak! So, I decided I should make a show of what’ll happen when freaks like you try to take people from what they’re made for.”

Andare snapped his fingers and four hulking figures grabbed Gavroche’s limbs with silent speed. He thrashed and kicked but before he could even call out, he was being kneed in the stomach and bashed across the face. Christopher woke up Vermillion from his unconsciousness with his bellow of rage, causing more screams and lashing to commence only to be silenced by a swift kick to the head. Christopher wasn’t as lucky. 

Andare yanked his head again, making him shout in pain. “If you don’t shut you slimy mouth I will shove myself up that pipe of your’s to keep you quiet, understood?” Chris just pulled at his hair and lunged at the Italian’s throat. He got more than a couple cuts in until he was hit across the head with a vase, making his entire world go black and fogged. Blood clotted his eyes and he tried to call out to a kneeling Gavroche before a final kick stilled his assault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SINCE I HATE THIS SHIT, ENJOY ALL OF IT IN ONE UPLOAD DUMP. ITS SOOOOOOOO BAD! AGH!
> 
> If you like it though, please tell me why. If you hate it, help would be appreciated as well. 
> 
> Gracias.


	18. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LAST PART OF MY SHITTY CLIMAX

Gavroche hit the first punch. Cabal had to run to grab the downed opera owner, blood dripping from his split lip. Just seeing the man lunge towards his love made him lash out in a way he hadn’t since he saw the dead boy in the snow. Andare had pulled the boy over his shoulders and bolted from the room as Cabal struck him in the ribs. A yell rose from the silent chest of the unmasked beast and for a moment Cabal thought he would be strangled by the towering man. 

Gavroche threw him against the floor with a rage that made his heart shrink as he fled after the true thief, the monster that was gripping his heart in his slimy hands. He didn’t even notice the blood against his shirt. Didn’t notice the way he limped before Andare laughed. 

The creature held out a knife the size of a femur bone against the frail neck of a barely aware body. Christopher was panting as he saw a silhouette in his red stained eyes. Far away a rumble filled the hollow hall as he was brought to his knees. Andare’s words slurred and rang in his head, trying to swallow down the dryness of his throat. He could taste a coppery, dry drop against his tongue and groaned as he was yanked by the collar.

“Keep drooling like that and I’ll have to drink it just to make sure you don’t stain our bed.” Christopher couldn’t hear even as the voice slipped into his ear drum.   
“He’s precious isn’t he?” Andare was holding his head as if it were to be mounted on a wall, a sedated animal unaware of its capture. “You should’ve locked him away honestly. It would’ve made all this so much easier for us, don’t you think? You keep him in your bed and I’d give you an incentive to sleep in mine. Wouldn’t that have been nicer?”  
Gavroche snarled, gripping his bleeding chest.  
“Did Cabal give you that? That’s nowhere near the heart. He’s rather dull, isn’t he. Ah well, he hit something for that much blood to still come out. If you agree with me, our little angel’ll be lapping at the scar in no time. Honestly, you should have bought him a collar and lead. Don’t you want a pet, Signor Fausser? Isn’t he just the perfect little lap dog for when you write? How can one not see the value in something as exquisite as this angelo, eh?”

For a flash, Gavroche wondered if they were still onstage, if perhaps he had taken the place of the wounded Ioan Ronald before the Doll disappears from all the world. How close was this tale? The reality hadn’t sunk in how perfectly aligned Andare was with the cruel, greedy man but now, it was as if his own words were flowing from his mouth with the concise gush of a cracked dam close to bursting. Every syllable aligned with what he’d sought to create but, nothing he could’ve written would've ever made his stomach knot and rage flare like this. 

“You’re too protective of this little toy! He should be shared, given to those who earn him. I would top that list, wouldn’t you say Signore!? Or second at the very least. I made your show tonight, did you even count the amount of people standing just to hear a second of my voice? Could you even begin to see how downright unfair it is to keep this prize from me! He is mine!”  
Gavroche smirked, “He you say? I thought you were talking about a toy? How can a man be boiled to such primary definitions?”

Andare snarled, pressing the knife to the boy’s jugular. “Caution, Fausser. He is something I would prefer not to damage.” Andare nipped at the boy’s ear, making a sound of pain echo in Gavroche’s ears before the actor strided back to avoid his hands. “If I damage anything I would hope it’d be you, but perhaps I should make a message.” The writer froze as Andare rested the point of the knife on Christopher’s face. 

Gavroche had to hold back a scream of rage as Andare dragged the blade against freckled cheeks. A string of crimson pearls dripped to the hardwood and just behind him, a dark blue light outlined the malicious, grinning face of Andare. 

“Put him down. He’ll die if you don’t let go.”  
Andare just chuckled, his knife tracing the jutting bones of the boy’s collar. “Die? Really, I feel like it’d be better if he was out a bit,” the flash in Andare's eyes could’ve froze blood. “Don’t you think?”

Gavroche pounced on him and for a moment the dazed body called out his name. Gavroche’s fist met Andare’s jaw with a solid crack. He fell into the door, a fracture in the blue glass spreading where his spine, skull, and pelvis met it.

Andare was blooming red with blood as he saw the monster take his prize in his arms. He growled as the monster retreated into his room, key catching the light. He fell as he ran after the hulking mass before he was met with the finality of a locked door. He rammed his shoulder against the barrier, yelling out as his shoulder hit the peeper of the door. His scream made still running theatre patrons and crew turn towards the bursted windows behind him. 

A scream shocked Christopher’s near lifeless body, and he stared at the scarred man with fear for a flash of a second. All Gavroche could think of was the way his heart froze. 

“Gavroche,” a soft breezy whisper, as tears ran down the young, bleeding actor’s cheeks. “Keep me safe. Please.”  
A silence filled the room as a raging Andare knocked in a heavy, locked door on to be met with an empty bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tune in next week for some chill down chapters and the epilogue. So close.


	19. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the finally countdown! One more update and it'll all be posted.

It was nearly morning when Christopher woke up in a dimly lit white room. He tried to bury his groan as he felt a sharp sting around his throat. He tried to hold back tears as he felt a soft hand in his hair. 

“It’s alright. It’ll just sting for a while.”  
Christopher stared up at Gavroche, cheek burning as a thumb brushed over the stinging cut. A pair of lips met his forehead as he was lifted upward slightly.   
“Everything burns, Gavroche.”   
Christopher could barely speak as he was prompted against the back of the bed. He screwed up his eyes, leaning forward towards the warm hand covering his chest. “Where are we?”

A sigh left him as his back was lifted from the cold metal bars behind him. “It’s a small hospital. It took you nearly two days to wake up, I’m sorry I brought you somewhere so far away.” A heavy sigh made the actor look up at him. “This is my village. It’s small but, the church has an open room and we can live there until you feel safe. Unless there’s something else you need.”  
Christopher shook his head, gripping the weak man gripped the writer’s collar. “Please no, I want to stay with you. You promised, remember?”  
Gavroche smiled, nodding. “I wouldn’t forget it for the world.”

Chris hummed, falling into a daze as a bright eyed woman leaned in, rust hair flying around her.   
“Well, the phoenix is reborn. You made him sound much more enthralling in your letters, Porce. Does he need any fluids?”  
“Water would be helpful, yes.”  
The woman shrugged, running back behind the curtains as Gavroche stroked the actor’s hair.   
“Do you know that doctor?”  
“Nurse actually. She’s rather interesting and she wormed her way into my family's list of ‘girls to add to the family’. Never really cared for that though. They aren’t much of an interest to me.”  
Christopher let out a hum as he nuzzled the warm hand holding his chin. “Keep it like that for me?”  
Gavroche chuckled, leaning his forehead against Chris’ “I wouldn’t mind doing so at all.”

The nurse behind the curtain froze as she grinned, watching the still dazed patient coming up and kissing her childhood friend with the heat of a small supernova inside the curtained stall. Paien wasn’t the first to assume Gavroche’s quirk of sorts, near everyone in the village after seeing the stage show had wondered it. But god bless her if she wasn’t enthralled with the bruised seraphim gripping his shoulder for dear life. All the time she’d imagined him running far away with some seductive siren but she never thought that he’d bring said siren to a dead community like their home town. 

Christopher was gasping into the kiss and rush of bitten lips as he leaned against the pillows and large hands running over his spine. He shuddered as he felt a soft press of lips against his collar. He stared at the ceiling and nearly yelled as he saw the blushing face of the rust haired woman.

“I have the water you wanted, just so you know.”

Gavroche looked at her with cloudy eyes as he clutched the boy to his chest. He seemed to view the wounded boy in his arms like his own piece of art. He kissed the boy’s cheek before he let him go and laid him back slowly. 

“Sorry about that, Paie. I was worried he wouldn’t wake up.”  
The girl just shrugged grinning. “No issues. You didn’t whip out your weasel in my office space so I won’t complain.” She kneeled by his side and held out the cup of water to him. “Do you want me to help or are your hands steady? I’ll do my job either way.”  
Chris just held out his still hands. “I just need to sit up.” 

Paien pulled him up slowly before handing him the cup slowly. Christopher sipped gradually, gripping the cup in both hands while trying not to gulp it fast. He could feel the eyes on him but he felt comforted, felt warm and loved, as if he would be cared for by both sides. He thanked the nurse as he handed her his cup but he felt that warmth lessen as a black eyed doctor slipped through the curtain.

“Nurse, has the patient been given the medication I asked of you?”  
Paien stood quickly nodding. “He was sleeping but, I was able to give him the medicines while he was out.’’  
“Good, good,” the doctor muttered as he held out a hand to a cowering Christopher. “It’s a good thing to see you’re awake, Signor Riccioletti. It’s a nice place here given that you want to stay according to our good friend,” he pointed to the slouched Gavroche, who was still eyeing him up. “You’ll be here until you’ve been awake for a full day and aware before you leave. Ms. Gillespie will lead you out by then.”   
Chris just nodded, fisting the sheets underneath him. The doctor only let out a hum as he left, Paien sighing. 

“Don’t mind him, just stuck up. I’ll leave you be, but the boy needs to sleep. He’s worn out. And I don’t feel like it’s going to be awful if he waits a moment.”  
Gavroche nodded and bid her goodnight as Paien blew out the lantern hanging over Christopher’s bed. The freckled actor let out a shaky gasp as he felt warm hands on his shoulders and spine.   
“Do you want anything else?”  
Christopher merely shook his head, hissing as he felt the gash on his head throb. “I just want to be warm and sleep.”  
Gavroche wrapped around the frail boy and stroked his hair. “Then I’ll hold you close until you can sleep. And keep holding until we leave again.”  
Christopher just sighed as he fell into a soft dream, one with sweet songs and indigo windowpanes.


	20. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reiunion.

Vermillion’s lip was bleeding from the amount of bites he’d dug into it. Cecily was much less excited next to him, considering there was a very high possibility Christopher was goddamn dead. Things had not been very calm at Ferrique since the mayhem that had been Andare Avidita’s ‘suicide’. Andare himself wasn’t dead, but his career had been shot in the head from his apparent kidnap and abuse of five actors and the alleged rape and murder of another. Vern had found a letter from Gavroche in his bedroom, given to him by the police once he was coherent after his drug induced slumber, left before the first and last performance of Opera Ferrique’s fall season. He understood immediately that he wouldn’t see Christopher and Gavroche wouldn’t come back to Paris for at least a decade.

‘Dearest Vermillion,   
I have taking dire matters and am stealing away Christopher to my small village of Rouen. I am going to keep him safe here and I want you to promise not to share this beyond Cecily or the twins. I have written multiple journals concerning the way Andare and Monsieur Ferrique acted upon Christopher and I will send you an account of what was done to Christopher under your guise that it is needed to imprison the one who has made us run. We aren’t going to be long, but I’ve decided regardless of tonight that I will take him away if I feel the slightest bit suspicious. Please come to see us if you wish, it’ll always give us both comfort. Just write if anything is needed come tomorrow.  
Your friend,  
Gavroche Fausser

 

It’d nearly been two months just to get to the courtroom due to the fame of the men at fault. It wasn’t a hard case given the witnesses to both acts and the detail within Fausser’s journals when it came to Ferrique but it still held most of Paris by storm with the gossip alone.

“Can you imagine, a whole quaternary of sodomites?”

“How awful it must’ve been for that poor actor, I would cry at his part ever since I first saw him.”

“I knew that Italian was sick in the head but, being a pederasty?, I didn’t think it would be that disgusting.” Cecily had smacked the man for that, given that many actors in Italy weren’t anywhere near as awful as Andare himself. 

“I was almost sick at the thought of that actor getting used like that. I can see why people call him a unisexual, but he clearly felt pain given those journals. They hurt just to hear.”

Just hearing the courtroom buzz after the trial made Vermillion want to scream in outrage. Christopher was not a sex crime, he was a human, a human in pain with emotions and love. He was so close to the end of the entire mess that was absorbing his life but, he had to see Christopher, even though Andare was still in court, even though Ferrique was still defending himself because his mind was confused and fractured. Near everyone in Ferrique’s troupe expected him to be thrown into the looney bin after he nearly tore Christopher’s costume on stage saying that he was exposed to the world. It hurt to think that it took nearly a full month to bring Ferrique to the stand and he hadn’t even run. Still, he was already being transferred to his padded cell. 

Vern had to bury his excitement as the carriage slowed in front of a high steeple. Cecily was drumming a processional as she stared off at the graveyard stretching across the field. 

“If he isn’t here, I’m going to cry until the alter boys carry us out.”  
Vern smiled softly as he nodded. “I’ll cry too. I won’t be able to move until you’re pulled out from under me.”

Cecily only sighed as she pulled the suitcase to her chest with the sharp pull of the horse-drawn car. They both took in a breath before they opened the door and stepped out onto the paved ground. Cecily had to grip her sunhat as the wind seemed to lift the entire structure off its supports. A bell rang out loudly through its opened tower but it didn’t feel as sharp as she would think. As the car drove away, Vern held out his hand to her and they both ascended the steep climb upstairs.

Christopher held his head out the window to feel the fat flakes of snow in his hair. It’d been long enough for his bruised neck to lose it’s purple tinge. He couldn’t help but shudder as the cold pounded against him and he couldn’t help but sigh to see the fog of his own breath billow around him. He didn’t notice however that two figures had entered downstairs. Gavroche had gone out to the market given that it was nearly Saturday mass time and he didn’t have much to do after making dinner and tidying up their apartment above the chapel. It felt strange to be tucked away inside a church given how long he’d been in a bustling city and his complete departure from religion in general. 

He pulled back into the room as he heard a loud thunk against the floor behind him and nearly passed out from the force of his head against the stone windowsill. He turned, eyes wide as he met a teary eyed woman with a purple dress covering her throat. 

“Holy shit…. You are alive.”

Christopher just laughed for a moment before he tackled her and started crying on her shoulder. Vern stroked his hair as Christopher sobbed breathlessly and rubbed his back. 

“Hey, it’s alright, Chrisy. It’s okay.”  
Christopher just shook his head as his voice came out. “I’m not upset. I’m overwhelmed. Goddamn, Vermillion! I’m not a child!” He grinned, tears still falling from his cheeks. “I missed you, I missed both of you. And for once, you found me before any of them did. Gavroche really kept me safe. He kept his promise.”  
“Christopher, he sent me this address a couple weeks ago.”  
Chris smiled, eyes brightening. “So you were the surprise Gavroche was talking bout? I was certain it was something much different though.”  
“Something round and gold?” Vern smirked as Cecily’s eyes widened from his comment.  
“I can still smack you in front of the wounded child.”

Christopher laughed, a bright sound that they could both hear echo through the holy halls below. “He already asked about that actually. I said I’d consider but I was in too much pain to say yes and mean it. He didn't have the ring regardless. We just know that soon we will. When Andare and Ferrique are out of these country.”  
Cecily nodded, leaning against his shoulder. “Can’t blame you, actually. It’ll be alright if you stay far from Paris. It’ll be alright but, I’m sorry you can’t act.”  
Christopher looked up at her. “Can’t act? You don’t think I haven’t done anything but get bedsores and cook for nearly four months now do you?”  
Vern perked up at this leaning towards him. “You got a job?”  
Chris nodded, smiling. “A good one. There’s a small theatre company that Gavroche wrote for back before we met. He’s rather good with a deadline but he writes me into every piece especially the newest one. It’s rather sweet actually. Not to mention the actors are rather open. It’s odd to not be stared at all the time. They’re all just happy to see someone like me and they’re always asking about Paris. They just adore it. They don’t practice on weekends and every night we write and sing so he can stay on schedule. It’s rather fun.”

“Fun huh?,” Cecily leaned in with her eyebrows wiggling up and down. Chris covered his mouth as she leaned towards him. “Certain your vacation is more than just ‘fun’? You know Claus is gonna get the opera house if you don’t come back?”  
Christopher pulled his hand down, cheeks slightly pink. “Claus, really? He’s the only one who really got written into the will?”  
“Nah, he’s just the oldest ward and Ophelia basically left Paris without the Opera house. She’s in some small city near the Seine. She’s just not interested in theatre anymore. It’s not here thing. Singing is still something she adores though.”  
Chris grinned as he went over into a kitchenette. He held out a pair of cups with red tea out to Vermillion and Cecily. “That’s wonderful. She’s a wonderful singer, almost always. The tea’s some herbal flower mix Gavroche gets from this woman who works at the local hospital, Piena, you’d like her Cecily.” 

That just made her chuckle as she clutched the hard metal cup as a small cup of sugar was pushed towards her and Vern. Vern tapped Christopher’s shoulder as he turned to grab something, bringing out a bright blue parcel from his jacket pocket. 

“Um… I was worried that Gavroche would miss this. Even if you don’t want him to wear it.”  
Christopher took the bright blue and white box and opened it slowly before he started laughing brightly. “Why is it painted?” 

Vern grinned as he pulled out a bright yellow and blue porcelian mask, the mask that Chistopher had last seen on Gavroche’s floor. “Let’s just say that Andare made a small crack in it. You wouldn’t have noticed it but it wasn’t hard to fix. We resealed it and then Cecily thought it would look better if it wasn’t so obvious where the seal was.”  
“It took eighteen cups of pure white paint to even make a patch. The coloring part was way better.”

Christopher was near beat red as he clutched the piece to his chest, running his finger over the swirling red roses around the eye sockets and the yellow suns dotting the edges. It was positively gorgeous, clearly done by Cecily given the swirling she used to paint everything from walls to clothing. Delicate spirals grew into long, spindly fingers, reaching towards the edge of the eye before forming the shapes of vines or flower petals. 

“He’ll put it in a box or case, it’s so pretty. Was this all you Cecily?”  
She nodded, grinning as she held out a little card. “Vern made that out to you.”  
Just looking at the numbers on the check made Christopher feel faint. “All of this? This is all for me?”  
Vern nodded. “There’s Gavroche’s cut too, but you already have the majority, right? That can set you two up on the Easter Islands given how much he’s kept for, what, nine years? It’s more than you need but, that just means you can work better.”

Christopher was crying again with a smile that made Cecily worry for his cheeks before the door creaked open. Gavroche was frozen by the sight of a smiling and crying Christopher bolting towards him with a check in his hands, both of their friends standing behind him and grinning. As he was tackled, all he could think of was how nice it felt to finally be in a real home again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope my research for 18th century European slang for homosexuals paid off. 
> 
> One more chapter, guys.


	21. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new performance ends with the normalcy of a new life.

Christopher’s eyes stung as he was held directly into the searing magnified lantern. The room was practically vibrating with heat but the dull beat of fans was replaced with the uproarious cries of clapping audience members. Christopher had to fight back tears, knowing he didn’t want to smear the already dripping makeup when he still had to bow. The woman holding him, a lovely lady named Femme Amant, was crying though, and it made enough sense given the fact he was bleeding from the stomach only three lines ago. He couldn’t get through a play without getting stabbed apparently. 

The curtain pulled shut and he nearly fell as she put his feet to the ground quickly. 

“You’re better than Bancal, he couldn’t stop stuttering.”

Chris only chuckled as the dark voice whispered to him. She was a much more masculine figure when compared to every other woman he’d met but she seemed to like him more than most of the actors who just kind of ignored him. He liked getting a friend after not having one since he was a ward cleaning on his knees really. 

“You’d do great in Paris, you know. They need more actresses like you.”

The woman who had been crying near seconds ago nearly startled the audience with her laugh as she took the small freckled hand held out to her. 

“Trust me, Paris doesn’t want people like us. That’s why I’m glad you’re staying. It makes us better than them.”

That made Christopher beam virtually as stunning as the spotlight blinding them both as they bowed and walked arm and arm to the back of the stage, Chris’ shirt still stuck to his chest by molossus and red. 

“Better than Paris? I thought that phrase is reserved for couples affairs.”   
Femme shrugged a glint in her eyes. “Ours are similar, I’d imagine, given how close that sweet playwright is.”

Chris just nodded as he walked her out bowing again before spinning her, reprising the scene where they met at a ribbon dance, falling head over heels without knowing that one was possessed by a mad man and the other was a hapless man who had a heart of gears and wires. He could almost taste Gavroches’ tea stained lips against his own as he gripped Femme close. 

“And how are we similar, dear comrade?,” he whispered as they bowed slowly. He caught her smile at the use of her thick accent.   
“I wouldn’t invite you to my bedroom, but I’d ask the tart with a parasol right there.”

Christopher followed the quick swish of her short blonde hair to a slim brunette with a bright blue parasol between her legs. He chuckled, holding back a laughing fit as they were pulled backstage and into their dressing rooms. He started laughing even louder as Femme followed after her gaze once they’d gotten mingled into the crowd after the show. He watched with a smile as the large blond woman made the small blue eyed woman blush and laugh like Cecily once did around him. 

He wasn’t alone if people like Femme existed. How could he, when other people struggled, when they too could spot out others like lights in their chest’s attracted each other. When he first fell for Vermillion, he’d felt sick and afraid, but now, by watching Femme speak to another woman with such ease, he wondered if he would have such confidence if he hadn’t been victimized. 

He didn’t cower at the sight of men anymore, if anything he welcomed them and tried to understand them as soon as possible. He still felt gazes upon him that made him shake, but they didn’t break him, if anything they made him long for Gavroche with more need than he’d ever known. He jolted as he felt warm arms around his waist, and burst out into a soft squeal as warm lips met his pulse. 

Two years, God that number seemed blessed every time he thought of it. Two whole years alone in a small town. Two years of a shared apartment that they filled with each other’s belongings and self. He could be buried under the amount of purple and green fabric that littered every area and he’d have to spend days to collect all the blankets and clothes that covered every hard surface in their rooms. He spend a thousand years in that room if it meant Gavroche would be there getting bedsores with him. 

He looped his arms around the neck behind him as he twisted back to stare at the gorgeous monochrome face before kissing him sweetly, ignoring every eye and gasp in favor of the hum that vibrated through his chest. Christopher couldn’t ask for anything more. The feeling of a radiating warmth that came from a wide expansive chest and the chills that a scrape of nails against flesh created couldn’t bring anything but absolute adoration and destruction to Christopher and he loved every second that he could get. 

By the time the two broke away, Vermillion and Cecily clapped their praises as they pulled the pair out the door, having spotted them given the wide ring around them and the massive height of the writer. Neither minded as they were dragged to their hotel and all four let out whoops at the cheers and adoration that they showered on each other for a magnificent debut for the return of the Literary Savior of Rouen that was very much worthy of some wine. 

As Christopher cackled with Gavroche wrapped around his waist, near sleep but still not gone, he felt a surge of warmth in his heart. This was what he wanted. This was what he always need to keep himself happy. This was what family was when he was a boy. These were the people he’d want to die with and was happy to have survived with. 

There was a time when Christopher would slice into his wrists so he’d look undesirable. There were times when he would break glasses against himself or let himself walk off a height with his eyes closed just to hope to hurt himself. When Gavroche told him why his face was a monochromatic map of scars and dead skin, he had wept until Gavroche sang to him. Nothing Christopher could do to himself would ever hurt as much as knowing Gavroche’s pain and he realized it was the same for Femme and Vern and Cecily. He would always feel more for them than any response his nerves could send him. 

He let out a soft chuckle as Vern went on and on about how he’d been talking a man off a building because he thought he was a pigeon, a tale he’d long since memorized given the abrupt beauty of seeing a psychotic man fly, but all he could focus on was the pale body sleeping beside him. He could just feel the pulse beneath him and it brought him back to them in a bed and made him want to bury them both under blankets regardless of what Vern said. He wanted to kiss the tired form until every part of him was alight with electricity and to do even more until they both ached until it was near impossible to sit up, let alone perform again. 

But he buried it as Gavroche’s tired eyes met his own with a soft fire. 

“You can take me to bed if you want, douce charmante.”  
Christopher reddened as he burst into a laughing fit, falling back onto Gavroches’ chest, Cecily and Vern staring at each other as they sipped warmed wine.   
“I would very much love it if we did go off. Would either of you mind?”

Cecily and Vern shook their heads as they watched Chris stumble to his legs, face red as the wine they had shared and left on the soft burning stove. Gavroche was quick to grab his arm as he slowly stood, body still unbalanced as he was lead by the freckled actor to their closed off bedroom. 

“You think they’ll do it if we stay the night?,” Vermillion whispered softly as Cecily gulped down her wine.   
“I am certain by all stretches of the imagination that no one, not even a rifle wielding maniac could keep two drunk lovers from getting what they want.”

Still, the two of them didn’t make a noise larger than a creak of the bed before silence fell over and the lantern in the room was blown out. Cecily and Vern passed out earlier, the kettle to the side of the stove as they slept against the blanket coated table and floor. Chris could just barely hear Vern’s familiar snoring through the door and couldn’t help but grin as he was pulled closer to Gavroche. He thought that nothing could ever be as warm as this, that he could never truly be this comfortable and safe anywhere but here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all folks! I truly hoped you enjoyed my first novella sized work. Leave any comments and critiques as o would love to hear from you all. Thank you so much for your time.

**Author's Note:**

> This story's already full written but I'll only be posting the overture plus the first two chapters before I start uploading once a week, every Saturday. I hope you enjoyed, please leave comments and critiques, I love the help. Thanks, again! 
> 
> P.S. Please help with Translations, no one I know really speaks French or Italian and I hate using Google Translate, please help meh.


End file.
